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Copyright, 1922, by 
FRED W. ALLSOPP. 
Little Rock, Ark. 


From the Press of 
Parke-Harper Publishing Co. 
Little Rock, Ark. 


“/I little nonsense notv and then 
Is relished by the wisest men " — 
And also by poor fools , I ken. 


Little 

Adventures 

IN 

Newspaperdom 

BY 

Fred W. Allsopp 


ILLUSTRATED 


ARKANSAS WRITER PUBLISHING CO. 
LITTLE ROCK, ARK. 


1922 


CHAPTER 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 


XVI. 

XVII. 
XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 


CONTENTS 

Lines to the “Old Lady” — Entering the Newspaper 
Business. 

Experiences in a Country Newspaper Office. 

Arrival at Little Rock — First Impressions. 

The Mailing Clerk — Printing Office Tricks. 

My Friends, the Printers. 

Remembrances of Happy Days Spent in the Press Room. 

A Promotion to the Press Room. 

The Reverses of the Owner of the Paper — “Paradise 
Alley.” 

The Editorial Department, and Its Relation to the Busi- 
ness Office — The “Lily Whites.” 

Early Experiences as a Reporter — Laid Out by a Tough 
Assignment. 

The “Nose for News,” and Some Memories Connected 
With the Reporters. 

Reporting a Speaking Tour — Serving a New Mistress. 

“Squirrel-Head” Editors and “Old Lead” — Fiery Ora- 
tory Mixed with a Freezing Temperature. 

A Change in Ownership, Followed by a Printers’ Strike. 
Personal Peculiarities of a Publisher. 

Another Change in Administration — Experiences in a 
Cyclone — Up for Contempt of Court — Some Ran- 
dom Sketches. 

Special Editions — “Extras” — Contemporaries. 

The Hoo-doo Plant — Intoxicated with Power. 

A Religious Controversy Between the Gazette and Sam 
P. Jones. 

The Attempted Shooting of the Editor. 

A Midsummer Night’s Revelry. 

The Merchandise of Advertising. 

The Esteemed Subscriber — The Newspaper, the Goat — 
The Field Representatives — The Office Punster. 

Newspaper Beats, Jokes and Blunders. 

;' U MAY 10 1922 J 
©CI.A6 74 310 



^ A -fl ^ 


CONTENTS — Continued. 


CHAPTER 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 
XXXII. 
XXXIII. 
XXXIV. 


Libel and Damage Suits — The Newspaper a General 
Intelligence Office. 

The Ladies and the Newspaper. 

The Heiskell Family — The Idiosyncrasies of the Neces- 
sary Office Boy. 

The Effect of the War on the Newspaper Business — 
The H. C. P. 

The Newspaper Office of Today. 

Two Excursions With the N. E. A. Into Canada. 

A Brief Season of Mirth. 

A Spoony Affair at Bigwin Inn. 

I Suffer Two Falls. 

A Fredericton (B. C.) Romance. 

In Conclusion — Musings and Yearnings. 



Preface 

T CALL these sketches “Little Adventures in Newspaperdom.” 
A While my excursions have practically been confined to the 
narrow world encompassed by the publication office of one par- 
ticular newspaper, the experiences have none the less been actual 
adventures to me. 

A part of the contents was brought out in a small edition as 
a local souvenir a few years ago. The demand for the book, par- 
ticularly as it was circulated free, was greater than expected. 
The subject seemed to attract many who are interested in reading 
about the newspaper business. Therefore, I have been encouraged 
to eliminate the purely local features, and, after making some 
changes, corrections and additions, to endeavor to help it to meet 
the apparent need of books that will show something of the inside 
of a printing office and tell a little about the genus newspaper- 
man. 

The following is taken from the introduction to the first 
edition : 

“While not supposing that there existed any pressing neces- 
sity for doing so, and, perhaps, with no other purpose than to 
gratify a foolish fancy, I have written some random recollections 
of the commonplace experiences of the years of my life which 
have been spent in a newspaper office. 

“These experiences have not been unusually eventful, but 
the recital of any human experience, if properly presented, may 
prove interesting and furnish food for reflection. 

“In this narrative which I propose to inflict on the unsus- 
pecting and long-suffering reading public, if I am able to find a 
publisher sufficiently enterprising and appreciative to undertake 
the job of thus enlightening the world. I have not hesitated to 
digress whenever I felt like soliloquizing or moralizing. It 
will also be observed that I have not exercised a strict regard for 
the sequence of events, and, as I do not pretend to have followed 
any set plan, my pen having been allowed to glide at will, like the 


river, the result is a sort of melange or hodgepodge of things 
seen, heard, experienced and imagined. 

“Where I felt that I could not afford to tell the truth on 
myself, I have endeavored to be reminiscent about the other 
fellow. 

“I have amused myself by occasionally substituting rhyme 
for reason, and I hope that those who are innocently led into 
reading these effusions, through curiosity, or otherwise, may find 
it in their hearts to forgive the enormity of my indiscretions in 
that line. 

“If no other purpose is served, the writing of these pages has 
been a pleasant diversion to me.” 


Fred W. Allsopp. 



TO MRS. F. W. A. 


Had 1 been favored by the gods 
With true poetic fire, 

Fd weave for you a chaplet rare, 
Such as the gods inspire . 

Poetic flowers inset with gems 
From Fancy’s treasure-trove 

Should be the glowing fires to serve 
As symbols of my love. 

No fairies at my birth stood by 
With genius to imbue; 

So I inscribe this little book, 

My Heart’s Own Queen, to you. 

F. W. A. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


CHAPTER I. 

LINES TO THE “OLD LADY.’'* 
Illustrious Arkansas Gazette, 

’Tis many years since first we met, 

Yet well do I remember 
When I approached your sanctum first. 
Adventure, knowledge, work athirst, 

One day in mild September. 

Revered Gazette, bright morning star, 

What fond remembrancer you are 
Of golden days of beauty — 

When Fancy whispered to my ear, 

When proud Ambition silenced fear, 

And Printing was sweet duty. 

I was a simple little boy. 

Who deemed it would be endless joy 
To serve a dame so royal; 

So I resolved to be your knight, 

Forever in your cause to fight. 

With heart sincere and loyal. 

No Don Quixote ever fought, 

Or favor of a princess sought 

With sentiments more knightly, 

Than those I entertained for you, 

The day I joined your busy crew, 

When youth’s clear fires burned brightly. 

It gratified my soul to find 

Your potent power to sway mankind; 

With words at times resistless. 


*The Arkansas Gazette has been known for many years as the “ Old 
Lady ” of the State Press. 


10 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


You opened wide my eyes to Truth, 

And helped to smooth my ways, uncouth, 
My great and noble mistress. 

Tis true I heard you called a hag, 

Who far behind the times must lag, 

By those unduly jealous; 

Seme smiled when you would advocate, 

Or criticize, affairs of state, 

Believing you o’er zealous. 

But no one could malign the name 
Of such a high and worthy dame 

With charges of deeds shady, 
Without provoking show of fight 
From one who was the valiant knight 
Of Arkansas’ Old Lady. 

’Twas royalty that I espoused, 

A queen who ardent love aroused — 

Long praised in song and story; 

At whose high court were noblemen 
Who worked away with brain and pen 
For your eternal glory. 

I owe you much, My Lady great. 

For influencing my poor fate; 

You made life’s problems clearer, 
And though you have exacting been, 

Your smiles to me were sweet to win, 

As each year found you dearer. 



Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


11 


ENTERING THE NEWSPAPER BUSINESS 

I can hardly realize that I have served more than thirty-six 
years continuously in the office of the ARKANSAS GAZETTE, 
at Little Rock, Arkansas. This is a long time when one tries 
to look ahead that far, but the years have passed so quickly to me 
that it seems but yesterday that I stepped into the office the 
first time. 

My name has not been off the publishers’ pay-roll for 
a single day during all the years mentioned — indeed, that is a 
point which I have taken particular pains to guard against. I 
have managed to draw my salary with great and scrupulous regu- 
larity, though for years the amount was not of great moment, and 
there were times when the publishers were barely able to pay 
salaries. I was always desirous of practicing a methodical regard 
for detail and duty. 

I have seen this journal grow greatly in size, character, 
prestige and volume of business. I have lived to see it wax 
rich enough to print a colored comic section and Mutt & Jeff 
cartoons, together with a profusion of half-tone illustrations, 
and all the high-brow features put out by the syndicates; which 
attractions, according to the editor, places it on the highest 
pinnacle of successful present-day journalism. I have enjoyed 
seeing it transformed from a bad financial sink-hole to a valuable 
money-making property, and have contributed all I could to its 
success. In fact, I have at times been vain enough to think that 
the old sheet would have sickened and perhaps gone to the news- 
paper grave-yard long ago but for me. 

While an editor and a manager, with a few assistants, handled 
the business and got out the paper in the early days, it can now 
boast of all the high-sounding titles in managers, editors and 
sub-editors that any metropolitan newspaper employs. These 
include a Manager, an Editor-in-Chief, an Associate Editor, a 
Managing Editor, a State News Editor, a Telegraph Editor, a 


12 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


Night Editor, a City Editor, a Sporting Editor, a Society Editress 
and a Paragrapher. 

The paper has had more than a dozen different managements 
during my connection with it, and before I became one of its 
owners, I would wonder with every change of administration if 
my time had come, and sometimes tremble in my shoes lest I 
should lose out. In each instance, however, it was my good 
fortune to be asked to remain, without directly seeking retention. 
It became a standing joke among my associates that I was put 
on the inventory and transferred with the chattels when a change 
occurred in the management or the paper was sold. Occasionally 



Mutt and Jeff, Two Comical Creations of Bud Fischer, Which Have Created 
Much Merriment for the Newspaper Readers. 

(The Bell Syndicate, New York.) 



Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


13 


when a fellow wanted to flatter me, he was apt to refer felicitously 
to this tendency to stick-to-itiveness on my part by comparing me 
to Tennyson’s brook, which, “while men may come and men may 
go,” went on forever. 

I began with the paper so early in my life, and remained 
with its different publishers so long and persistently, that some 
of them were wont to claim that they had raised me. One of 
them once remarked, in speaking of me, “why, d — — it, I almost 
raised that boy.” I take these intended pleasantries as somewhat 
complimentary, because if those who made them were entirely 
ashamed of me, they would be more apt to deny rather than 
claim such relationship. 

This publication office has indeed been almost parent and 
school to me, and if I have been any good in the world, it is 
through my connection with it. 

My going to the paper was due to the fact that I was early 
imbued with the ambition to become a great journalist. I be- 
lieved that in this high calling I could wield a desired influence 
for good in the world. At fourteen years of age, I fondly cher- 
ished the hope of being some day the editor, publisher, or pro- 
prietor — and perhaps all three — of the largest metropolitan daily 
in New York or London. If it had been fashionable in those days 
to have a chain of newspapers, a la Hearst, Munsey, Ochs, Pulitzer 
or Viscount Northcliffe, I doubtless would also have dreamed of 
that little fad. I am reminded that at about that time I expressed 
my misguided desire in a parody, something like the following: 

IN NEWSPAPER LAND. 

I wish I were with the copy-sprinters, 

Scribbling there among the printers. 

In Newspaper Land I’d take my stand 
To live and die an editor. 

Hie away, hie away! To Newspaper Land. 

I wish I were an editor. 

In Newspaper Land I’d take my stand, 


14 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


To live and die an Editor. 

Hie away, Hie Away! to Newspaper Land. 

Oh, gay the times we’d have together. 

No matter what the kind of weather. 

Hie away, hie away! to Newspaper Land. 

T would be always gay and pleasant there; 

We’d see no cloud; we’d know no care. 

Hie away, hie away! To Newspaper Land. 

CHORUS. 

Hie away, hie away! to Newspaper Land, etc. 

But, alas for the illusions of youth! I am yet confined to 
the business office of the “great religious daily” referred to, 
instead of moulding public opinion and rendering oracles from 
the editorial tripod of the aforesaid New York or London 
Thunderer — and, incidentally, rolling in wealth. No doubt I was 
never intended for such an exalted position as I aspired to, or, 
perchance, the modern newspaper, with its greatly increased size, 
and bewildering activities, has developed so rapidly that my 
meagre stock of grey matter would not enable me to keep up with 
the journalistic procession. 

I am consoled by the fact that the business end is the real 
Brains Department of a newspaper, although, of course, no editor 
is liberal-minded enough to admit it. 

I am forcibly reminded of my early anxiety to do something 
in the newspaper world by a letter which one of my old employers 
handed me, with the remark, “Here’s a letter which I found in my 
old cedar trunk; I wonder if your ambition has been satisfied.” 
The letter was a serious one which I had written to him years 
before, and ran as follows: 

“Little Rock, July 24, 1887. 

“Dear Sir — I hope you will not think me discontented or un- 
grateful, because I make you a proposition in regard to a change 
of position on the paper, for I assure you that I fully appreciate 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


15 


the interest you took in me when you gave me a place in the office, 
and also your kindness in granting me an unsolicited, but much- 
needed, increase in salary. 

“I like the newspaper business, and expect to remain in 
the harness for life, but I am ambitious to some day be at the 
head of some leading paper of the mighty press of the country. 

“I realize that a young man like myself, whose opportunities 
have not been the best, and who has not a surplus amount of 
brains, to arrive at even a tolerable standard of excellence must 
direct all his energies to some certain end; and if I had a place in 
the editorial department, I would have desired experience and 
more time for reading and study. 

“I believe I have some little talent in that direction, and 
when additional help is required in that department, I should 
be glad if you would remember me. 

“Yours truly, 

“Fred W. Allsopp.” 

A scrap of paper serves some times to call up from the 
past a host of dead faces — some angelic in form, others like 
haunting demons — and what a train of recollections the perusal 
of this letter awakes! I had the desired opportunity to enter the 
editorial rooms several years later, but I did not make the splendid 
success that I fancied, as will be shown. The auspices, however, 
were unfavorable at the time, and it may be that the latent talent 
which I supposed I possessed, was entirely too latent to be aroused 
into successful action. 

I entered the employ of the Gazette in September, 1884, when 
seventeen years of age, but my first connection with the paper 
antedated that several years. I commenced to handle it as a local 
news-agent, during my fourteenth year, at Prescott, Ark., and I 
remember well that I sold on the streets of that town a great many 
copies of the Gazette containing the startling news of the assassi- 
nation of President Garfield, on July 2, 1881. The paper was 


16 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 




then a large eight-column folio sheet, very unwieldy to handle. 
The supply came to me unfolded. The people were so eager 
for the issue of that day and it sold so rapidly that I did not 
have time to fold the copies as in exchange for nickels I dispensed 
them to the waiting multitude, hungry for news. 



The Author selling Gazettes 40 years ago. (His mother, however, says 
that this picture is not an authentic one, as she never allowed her son to 
wear patched breeches). 

In August, 1883, I was appointed local correspondent of 
the Gazette at the same place, as shown by the following letter, 
which I retain as a memento of the past: 

“Little Rock, Ark., Aug. 7, 1883. 

Fred W. Allsopp, Esq., Prescott, Ark.: 

“My Dear Sir — Your favor of the 24th received. We should be glad 
to have you act as our correspondent at Prescott. Send all the news and 
take no sides in politics. Send only the most important news by telegraph, 
filing your messages at or after 6 p. m., with instructions to rush through 
in time to make our first edition at midnight. As often as you have news 
that yotf can get up in time for train, it will save the expense of telegraphing 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


17 


and serve us equally well. We will pay you for important telegrams fifty 
cents, and for letters twenty-five cents. Please advise us if this is satisfactory 
and we will send credentials. 

“Yours truly, 

“George R. Brown, Secretary.” 

The foregoing communication was written on an old-style 
No. 1 Remington typewriter, the characters of which were all capi- 
tals, and while they were in fact large, the message which they 
conveyed made them seem to stand out to my eyes in bold relief, 
like box-car letters in red. I lost no time in notifying the pub- 
lisher that I would be glad to act as correspondent on the terms 
proposed, and in due time I accordingly received the following 
credential : 


“THE GAZETTE 

“Little Rock, Ark., Aug. 29, 1883. 

To Whom It May Concern: 

“Mr. Fred W. Allsopp, of Prescott, Ark., is hereby appointed special 
correspondent of the ARKANSAS GAZETTE, with authority to send News 
Telegrams at the expense of the undersigned, at such times as he may think 
proper, and to represent the GAZETTE upon all occasions of sufficient 
public interest. 

(Seal) “GAZETTE PRINTING CO., 

“By Geo. R. Brown, Secretary.” 

For a time, in my own estimation, I was the most important 
man in town, and for several months afterward I fondly carried 
the preceding certificate in my inside pocket, except when engaged 
in exhibiting it to my friends. 

I then practiced sending in such highly sensational and im- 
portant items as — 

“Our enterprising townsman, Mr. So-and-So, left last night 
for Little Rock, to purchase.a mammoth stock of goods.” 

“The beautiful and accomplished Miss Smith was married yes- 
terday to Mr. John Jones, one of our most promising young at- 
torneys.” 


18 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


“Colonel Smith, the largest planter in the county, reports 
crops badly damaged by the drouth,” etc. 

“The City Calaboose was destroyed by fire last night.” 

“The heaviest snow-storm of the season occurred yesterday.” 

“Bill Brown’s barn burned last night.” 

“Circuit Court is in session and a large number of cases 
are to be disposed of, among them,” etc. 

Upon asking for specific instructions in regard to the send- 
ing of certain items on one occasion, I received from the paper a 
letter which said: 

“Dear Sir — Replying to yours of the 10th inst., we were not aware that 
you expected us to order news. We thought you were to send everything 
of great importance, and matter relating to Little Rock or Arkansas people; 
and in case of doubt were to ask instructions by telegraph. Of course, 
we cannot know in advance when news is going to happen in your town • 
and therefore cannot instruct you, except in a very general way. 

“The Associated Press cuts a small figure with us so far as Arkansas 
news is concerned. Send in whatever big news of a general character you 
get, and any news of interest that in a special manner affects Arkansas 
people. We want no fights between ordinary folks. Your newspaper instinct 
must, after all, guide you, with an occasional suggestion from us. What 
would you want if you were running a Little Rock newspaper that is 
always crowded? That is the question you must answer in determining 
what to send. When in doubt, query us. Respectfully, 

“GAZETTE. 

I once wired in what I considered an important and well 
written special — or “story,” they now call them — and lots of them 
are stories, in truth. The unappreciative telegraph editor heart- 
lessly returned the telegraph company’s copy to me, with “ROT! 
ROT! ROT!” blue-penciled across the face of it in large letters 
and heavily underscored. The blow nearly broke my heart. 

Such treatment makes me think that the autocratic, matter- 
of-fact news-editor, when he ruthlessly consigns an item to the 
waste-basket, or cuts the “stuffin’ ” out of it, because it is not a 
first-class story, or gotten up in true metropolitan style, does not 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


19 


stop to consider how hard the inexperienced correspondent from 
the “sticks” may have worked to send in the simple story, or how 
terribly in earnest he may have been in his desire to serve the 
paper. Nor can he always appreciate when using his pruning 
pencil how important a really insignificant item may be considered 
by the people in the little burg from which it is sent. 

The editor is usually not very sentimental, if he is any good, 
and he has no time or sympathy to waste. 



Where many children of the brain are heartlessly wasted. 


CHAPTER II. 


EXPERIENCES IN A COUNTRY PRINTING OFFICE. 

QHORTLY after I became a special correspondent, I worked 
^ for three months in the office of the Nevada County Picayune, 
a weekly newspaper, published at Prescott, Ark., learning to 
“set” type. I served those thirteen weeks, happily, to satisfy my 
thirst for knowledge of the printing business, receiving absolutely 
nothing for my services except experience and the satisfaction of 
having access to the exchange table and a fairly good library 
which the editor had in his office. Pay was a secondary consid- 
eration with me then, for to me the work was play, and I thought 
a printing office was the open sesame to literature and everything 
that was great in the world. I saw a grand vista of glory opening 
up before me, and was content. I there learned to handle the 
composing-stick tolerably well, after “piing” every case in the 
office; to pull a Washington hand press; to kick a foot-power 
jobber, — and to turn out simple job work. Another accomplish- 
ment which I acquired was to “jeff” with quads for watermelons 
and soda-water. It was there, as I inked the press forms, and 
“took hold of the great Archimedean lever, to jerk it early and 
late in the interest of freedom,” that I inhaled my first smell of 
printers’ ink, the fascination or the curse of which, it is said, 
never leaves one who has been thoroughly inocculated with the 
virus of its contagious germs. 

THE LURE OF PRINTERS’ INK. 

Apprenticed to the printing trade 
When I was young and gay; 

The office devil I essayed, 

And held the force at bay; 

I pied the type the foreman laid 
Just like a country jay; 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


21 


I kicked the press — the poor old jade, 

And sang a roundelay; 

After a while, without much aid, 

I learned job work to slay. 

And when the grind too heavy weighed, 

I hankered after play. 

When foremen swore — would have me flayed, 

I longed from there to stray, 

But still I prayed, set type, and stayed — 

And why? — Just let me say — 

’Twas not alone for wages paid. 

To buy my bread each day, 

For ’tis a fact when men invade 
The print shop’s inky way, 

They find the smell, — Minerva made — 

Holds its alluring sway. 

It is said that there are pleasures in madness known only 
to madmen; so there are pleasures in the newspaper business 
known only to those who follow it. 

The owner of the Picayune, who was a talented young lawyer, 
named Dudley Madden, was absent a great deal. The newspaper, 



22 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


in fact, was a side-line with him. During his absences, when 
work was slack, two of the printers, who were above the average 
in intelligence and aspirations, resorted to the editor’s room, 
where he kept his library. I followed them when I could do so, 
and the three of us would there do snatches of reading. Often one 
of us would also declaim a popular or catchy poem, such as 
“Annabel Lee,” “Beautiful Snow,” or “The Psalm of Life,” for 
our mutual edification. It was a harmless and intelligent pastime, 
and had the effect of strengthening my natural love for poetry. 

These two printers were brothers, named Andrew and Walter 
Ross. Walter afterwards reformed, forsook the wicked printery 
and became a Methodist preacher. I heard him deliver a sermon 
a few years later, and, while I was glad to see him doing all the 
good he could, it was something of an adventure to hear a man 
pleading for souls who a few years before was as profane as 
most printers — and as a class they are not noted for piety. 

I remember with much pleasure several others of those who 
were employed in that little printing office at the time. One of 
them taught me to roll the forms, and laughed at me when I 
complained of aching arms or ventured to thank goodness that the 
circulation of the paper was only about twenty quires. 

I shall indeed always have pleasant memories of that Pica- 
yune office. And wherever I chance to be, I never pass a print 
shop but what my footsteps want to stop, as if it were home I’d 
found. ’Though it is the dingiest little place, where the types 
are dusty and look dumb, there is something magical about a 
printer’s case, as well as about the click of the linotype machine; 
and there is aways joy for me in the hum of the press. But, the 
Picayune office was a first love. 

Could I influence fate’s ways, 

Make at will my choice of days — 

Could the speeding hours expend 
With companions, grave or gay, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


23 


As I chose, until the end — 

Free to take up work or play, 

Small or great things to direct — 

What think you I would select? 

If among the towns I’ve known 
Whether small or mighty grown, 

Fair or ugly to the eye, 

Under southern skies, or north. 

In low vales, on mountains high — 

I were free to sally forth, 

As unhampered waters flow, 

Guess where I would straightway go? 

To a print shop I would go, 

Where I mastered what I know 
Of the mysteries of type, — 

Learned to jeff and swear a bit 5 
And to puff a corn-cob pipe, 

While I smiled at printers’ wit, 

On a fragile weekly sheet, 

Published at a county seat. 

I would waive success’ full hour, 

Every hope of wealth and power, 

Plus a castle by the sea, 

Just to be a galley boy, 

Could those days come back to me 
When each minute rich in joy. 

Found me with the printing crew 
In a little shop l knew. 

First impressions are the most lasting. Mr. E. E. White, a 
former editor of the Picayune, had made an impression on my 
mind and heart before I had the experience of working on that 
paper. It was when my father was the Acting Postmaster of the 
town, and I assisted him in sorting and post-marking letters. This 
editor wrote up the “accommodating postmaster” and his assist- 
ants, in true country newspaper style. He mentioned me as being 
as polite as a basket of chips and as spry as a kitten. It was the 


24 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


first time I had had the pleasure of reading my name in print, 
and it made me as proud as a turkey-gobbler, although I cannot 
see why I should have felt complimented on being likened to a 
basket of chips. 

I would have been ashamed at that time to admit how much 
this little incident pleased me, but I have since learned that the 
glamour of seeing one’s name in print has an almost universal 
appeal. It is as pleasing to the reader as applause from his audi- 
ence is to the public speaker; and “what heart of man is proof 
against” the “sweet, seducing charms” of popular applause? 
This is the reason that wise editors get the names of as many 
people as possible into their publications. 

THE GLAMOUR OF PRINT. 

How conceited oft are mortals 
Who invade newspaper portals, 

Though such tendency they scorn until the last; 

Vain are most newspaper readers, 

And especially the leaders, 

Who in politics and social life are classed. 

They may say they do not court it — 

Dare the papers to report it — 

But the editors are crabbed, to be sure, 

If they fail to know what’s hinted, 

And to see that it is printed 

In a column that is not at all obscure. 

When the head-set gives a party, 

Where the welcome has been hearty, 

And the scribes write up the swellest hats and gowns, 

Envious are maidens slighted, 

If not actually excited, 

As is evidenced by divers smirks and frowns. 

Clever women beat men scheming, 

And they act while men are dreaming — 

When they pant to get their names or plans in print, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


25 


But the men, with few exceptions, 

Practice deeper-dyed deceptions, 

While both relish public mention without stint. 

Years after I worked for it, another owner of the Picayune 
was indicted, unjustly, I believe, on a charge of boodling in the 
legislature, of which he was a member. There was nothing around 
or in connection with that poor little journal that looked or 
smelled like boodle in my day, but times with it in a financial 
way may have improved since then. 

While the work at the Picayune office was intensely inter- 
esting and highly pleasing to me, I soon began to feel that that 
office was too circumscribed and picayunish for a boy like me. 
After a while, when I cut a wisdom tooth, I sighed for a wider 
field of operation — and some compensation for what I vainly 
considered were my valuable services. 

I then, with the consent of my parents, timidly and with 
much foreboding, wrote to the Gazette, at Little Rock, to make 
application for a position. I wrote of my experience with the 
Picayune, unconsciously enlarging a bit on that. 

This was the first and only time that I have ever applied 
for a position, and I was successful. It happened that a mailing- 
clerk was needed by the Gazette, and the fact that I had stated 
that I knew something about “sticking” type decided the manager 
to take a chance on giving me a trial. 

The mailing-clerk had to put subscribers’ names into type. 
I was not any too good a printer to perform that part of my 
work, and I have never had opportunity to become a better one. 

Well, I lost no time in repairing to Little Rock, and my 
spirits rose high as the fateful hour for my departure drew nigh. 
I thought, “Why, of course, I shall succeed; I am a man, able and 
anxious to battle with the world.” 

The events of that period are more vividly impressed on 
my mind than those of any other. I distinctly remember that 


26 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


that night’s sleep at home was not good. It was long past midnight 
before I closed my eyes, while generally I retired when the 
chickens went to roost. One of my brothers, with whom I slept, 
told my mother the next morning that I must have had a fever, 
as I was so restless. 

While pitching and tossing on my little bed in the silence 
of that last night at home, what a panorama of ideas revolved in 
my simple mind! I was at an age when a boy is ever ready to 
“listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue with 
eagerness the phantoms of hope.” All the acts and incidents of 
my past life were brought before me more vividly than ever 
before. A thousand times did my thoughts fly over the road 
from that place to the supposed scene of my future operations. 
When old Morpheus did obtain control of my senses, I dreamed 
of being a great newspaper man. 

Who has not realized bright anticipations and fondly cher- 
ished hopes in Dreamland? Experience, however, teaches youth 
that he must not rely on shadowy dreams; that the things of 
this world are not always what they seem, and many of our 
idealistic notions are knocked sky-high by the realistic affairs of 
life with which we as full-fledged actors in the real play of life 
become surrounded and absorbed. 

I was no exception to the rule that when a young man starts 
out he feels that he is a very important personage; full of hope, 
high spirits and confidence, he believes himself able to conquer 
everything before him, and there is absolutely no limit to his 
ambitious aims. The calling which he desires to adopt he be- 
lieves can only bring him happiness. No idea of misfortune, that 
his vocation will ever prove distasteful to him, or that he will 
not always be equal to the emergency, ever enters his head. He 
is eager for the fray, forms numerous resolutions, and enthusiasti- 
cally formulates plans of Herculean magnitude, which he gen- 
guinely hopes to carry out to the letter. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


27 


He never dreams of the bitter disappointments he may suffer, 
or of the difficulties his own weaknesses may cause him. He en- 
counters influences which cause him to make failures; he finds 
that there are limitations placed on his actions, and that trouble 
cannot be avoided. After weathering a few reverses, he sees that 
there is a dark side to his picture of life. A little later, if he is 
not made of superior stuff, he becomes so sick of “hope deferred,” 
so badly discouraged by a succession of disappointments, that he 
longs to get out of the turmoil and strife, and wishes he were back 
home reposing on the bosom of his mother. Then he bemoans his 
cruel fate, and considers himself the most unfortunate person 
on God’s footstool, when, in reality, he is only encountering the 
difficulties which nearly every one has to surmount. The most of 
us can call up a long list of recollections of crushed hopes and 
unrealized aspirations. Such is life! And the disappointments 
suffered are mostly the cost of misplaced ambition — the striving 
after something which is not good for us or is beyond our reach. 
Ambitious desires are the curse of many, and yet, what would 
this world be without ambitious men and women? It would 
come to a dead standstill; there would be nobody to make the 
wheels go ’round; we would be reduced to a state of savagery, 
and all things would soon come to an end. Ambition is a greater 
force in inspiring action than is duty, but our ambitions are not 
always laudable ones or rightly directed. 

I was blessed with the prayers of a good mother; and my father, 
who had always been an example of sobriety, industry and 
earnestness, counselled me in his parting admonitions, to disprove 
the saying of Dr. Samuel Johnson, that “he that embarks on the 
voyage of life will always wish to advance rather by the impulse 
of the wind, than the strokes of the oar;” because, as the sage 
further said, “many founder in the passage, while they are waiting 
for the gale that is to waft them to their wish.” 

Good-byes were said to father and mother, to brother and 


28 Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 

sisters, and the home-tie was broken. I left them on a bright 
autumn morning, and the sorrow of parting was the only cloud 
on the horizon of my thoughts. I was controlled by the warmth 
and lightheartedness of youth. 

I was off for Little Rock. It was my first great adventure, 
and was not only a trip to the beautiful capital of Arkansas, but 
for me the real beginning of a journey through a world of 
mingled joys and sorrows. 



Off for Little Rock, in Quest of Smiling Dame Fortune. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN LITTLE ROCK, THE FAR-FAMED “CITY OF ROSES.” 

On alighting from the train at Little Rock, which had not yet 
become the bustling metropolis it now is, I saw by following the 
crowd that the way to get up town was by boarding a mule car 
which was in waiting. I asked the conductor to put me off at 
the Gazette Office, but that unaccommodating nickel-gatherer re- 
plied that he did not know “where in the devil” that was. Here 
was a shock for me, as I had thought this newspaper, which was 
nearly seventy years old, and the State’s leading, largest and oldest 
public journal, was such an important public enterprise that 
everybody would know where its office was located. But I sup- 
pose the ranks of the street car conductors were recruited then, 
as now, from the rural districts. A passenger, with a malicious 
smile, volunteered the information that the office of “the dirty rag 
known as the Gazette” was on the corner of Markham and Scott 
streets. I then requested the conductor to stop there or at the 
nearest point hereto, but he carried me a way up Main street, 
about a mile in the wrong direction. I was compelled to take 
another car back and spend an additional nickel, which disap- 
pointed me, as I had no money to waste. 

I remember that an elderly woman entered the Gazette office 
almost simultaneously with myself. She desired to insert an 
advertisement, and a clerk stepped up to the counter to receive it. 
The notice was written out at the woman’s dictation, and read to 
her, when she suggested some change in the wording, and then 
asked the price. She was greatly surprised to learn that the 
advertisement would cost as much as fifty cents, and went off, 
saying that she guessed she wouldn’t put it in. 

“Just like a fool woman,” disgustedly remarked the clerk, 
a witty Irish boy, named Tom Dullahan, whom I came to know 


30 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


well and love much; “now why in Sam Hill couldn’t she have 
asked the price of that Want Ad and moved on before she put me 
to so much trouble?” 

After the woman withdrew, I asked the same young man: 
“Is this the Gazette Office?” 

Not having gotten over his feeling of resentment toward the 
aggravating customer, he replied: “Why, of course it is; what 
do you suppose it is?” as he perched himself on a high stool and 
proceeded to fill the room with cigarette smoke. 

“Is the manager in?” I timidly ventured to enquire. 

“No,” snapped he; but, with the aid of a verbal corkscrew, 
I managed to extract from him the information that the manager 
would be there in about an hour. 

I thought my reception a very cold one, and a damper was 
placed on my hopeful feelings. I was a country boy, who had 
heard that city folks were insensate business propositions, but I 
was not prepared to have the very blood frozen in my veins. I 
easily imagined that some drooping ornaments at the top of the 
railing of the counting-room were icicles. This was long, too, 
before the paper was owned by a certain splendid banker whose 
place of business was known as the “Cold Storage.” 

I know now that I was unduly sensitive, and expected too 
much consideration from people who knew nothing of me. No 
one since has had less cause for complaint on account of his treat- 
ment by his fellowman. 

I had an hour to wait for the manager, and I recall that I 
sauntered up Markham street, until I arrived at the classic old 
State House, since abandoned for the more pretentious two- 
million dollar Capitol. I entered the grounds and proceeded to 
occupy one of the old green benches which have stood in the yard 
for years and years, selecting one under a fine elm. I thought 
it a pleasant resort. A delightful breeze from the river fanned 
my face, while I looked over a copy of the Gazette, which had 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


31 


been given me at the office. I read little, however, for every- 
thing was new and strange to me. I could not avoid falling into 
a train of meditation, which was soon interrupted through the 
interposition of some stragglers, who, like myself, had sought 
rest and shade in the inviting grounds. One man took a seat 
near-by and buried himself in a paper, on another two rowdies 
were devouring the contents of a bottle which had a suspicious 
look about it; a short distance away, in front of a fountain, ap- 
peared a group of typical dudes, who were smoking cigarettes, 
and indulging in much laughter and profane language. Others 
were quenching their thirst at the public well, which from the 
indications, would soon have been drunk dry were it not an in- 
exhaustible spring. A beggar approached me, and, with a pathetic 
appeal, touched my tender heart and extracted another coin from 
my meagre pocketbook. 

I became particularly interested in the actions of one old 
man, who was seated on a mounted Civil War cannon, a short 
distance from me. He was undoubtedly a poor tramp — a rolling 
stone that had gathered no moss — and I was touched by his too- 
apparent unhappiness. He was tattered and torn, and appeared 
to be in such mental anguish that he could not rest. He moved 
around uneasily, ran his fingers through his hair, pulled his 
unkempt whiskers, shook himself, wrung his hands, and altogether 
was so pitiable that I shall never forget the sight of him. Some 
terrible anguish was evidently racking the brain of the poor 
creature. As to the cause, who knows whether it was a just pun- 
ishment for sins committed by himself, the result of man’s in- 
humanity, or woman’s perfidy? All along through life we see 
such specimens of human suffering, to whom the world is a 
vale of tears. 

Many a poor, penniless wanderer, who “hath not where to lay 
his head” elsewhere, has found temporary rest in that old Ark- 
ansas State House yard. 


32 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


The next morning I read in the Gazette a matter-of-fact 
account of the suicide of an unknown man by drowning in 
the river, and I have every reason to believe that it was the 
poor sinner whom I had seen writhing in misery the day before. 

“One more unfortunate, 

Weary of breath, 

Rashly importunate, 

Gone to his death.” 

Occasionally the paper, in its province of news-vender, pub- 
lishes stories as sad as that just related, and the waters of the 
Arkansas, flowing past the city, doubtless conceal tragedies 
stranger and sadder than any that have been recorded in type. 

And thus for the past thirty-six years, I have not only read 
religiously, but I have helped to produce the journal in which 
have been chronicled many items similar to the one referred to, 
and whose files include in their sometimes faded pages, the births, 
marriages, fortunes, misfortunes, and finally the deaths, of people 
in the Commonwealth of Arkansas. 

When I returned to the office after my breathing spell in 
the State House park, the manager had just stepped in and was 
walking to his private office in the rear. This manager, whose 
name was George Russ Brown, received me kindly and introduced 
me to the men in the office. He also introduced me to my work 
without any unnecessary delay. He kept me at it, too, as long 
as I was under him, but I must say that he was himself a wheel- 
horse for work. 

The boys in the office to whom I was introduced, when they 
learned that I was to be one of them, looked at me something 
like a pack of strange dogs that size up each other on a chance 
meeting. They warmed up to me, however, told a joke or two 
and exchanged some compliments with me. One of them, who 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


33 


seemed to take a pride in the shop, kindly took me on a tour of 
inspection of the establishment. 

The plant consisted of the front office, the press room in 
the basement, the editorial rooms in the front part of the second 
floor, with the composing room in the rear of same, while a job 
printing and binding department was in the rear of the business 
office on the first floor. 

While the publishers maintained a job printing department, 
as is the case with most small dailies, that department was aban- 
doned when the paper began to assume metropolitan proportions. 
Such a department is undoubtedly an advantage to the small 
paper, where the different classes of work can go hand in hand, 
under the supervision of the same management; but the larger 
paper must have trained newspaper workers, who are not sup- 
posed to know much about job printing. They are therefore 
distinct branches of the printing business. 

It was also found that often the two businesses were con- 
flicting. If a man gave the job department a big order, he seemed 
to expect favors from the newspaper; and the large advertiser was 
disposed to exact concessions on his commercial printing. 

The mechanical plant was poorly equipped in comparison 
with present standards; besides too many foremen and superin- 
tendents of departments were required, and from every standpoint 
it was advisable to dispose of the commercial printing feature of 
the business. 

Shortly before this question came up for consideration, the 
company had sold its country newspaper ready-print business, 
known as the Arkansas Newspaper Union, to the Western News- 
paper Union. 

This feature had been established on the theory that, having 
access to the news, and being able to use the matter which was 
printed in the Gazette in the auxiliary sheets for the country 
weeklies, a great advantage over other ready-print houses would 


34 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


be enjoyed; but the large concerns like the A. N. Kellogg Com- 
pany and the Western, cut prices below cost, with the evident 
intention of forcing out the little fellow. 

I was disappointed to find that my labors were mostly to be 
performed at night, and I had little to do on that afternoon after 
I was shown what manner of work was expected of me. 

There happened to be a circus in town, and the foreman of 
the composing room, a kindly disposed man named M. C. Morris, 
who desired to show the stranger a good time, proposed that he 
and I go to the show. That suited me immensely. He had passes, 
and I had for the first time in my life the exquisite pleasure of 
going to the circus on a newspaper “comp.” All who have en- 
joyed the thrill of a pass will know what an agreeable sensation 
the first favor of the kind occasions in one. After awhile, when 
you become accustomed to such civilities, and expect them as a 
matter of course, you reach a point where it grows painful to 
spend money on such things as they provide, no matter how 
wealthy you may be. 

Amusement and railroad passes were, I soon discovered, 
among the chief delights of the young newspaper man. And, by 
the way, the coming of a circus to town was always a source of 
both profit and pleasure to the office. It usually enriched the 
paper’s coffers by a good advertising contract, and provided as 
well a bunch of complimentaries. 

Most people think the newspaper men not only get amuse- 
ment and railroad tickets galore, but that they get almost every- 
thing else free, and therefore everybody envies the press boys 
and wants to break into the business. The fact is overlooked 
that, while the newspaper man does receive a great many courte- 
sies, he seldom has any money. The public thinks — 

0 the newspaper man is a jolly old soul, 

He rides and he frolics and pays no toll. 

He receives carte blanche to everything, 

Is feasted everywhere like a king. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


35 


And as for money, he never needs that, 

It’s nothing to him to be busted flat. 

He enjoys Life’s Circus wholly free, 

For his days are one long jubilee. 

Monarchs and mighty ones tremble and shake 
At the havoc or glory his words can make; 

So they all make courtesy when he goes by, 

And limit his liberty by the sky. 

Although the editors do receive many favors, the favors have 
to be reciprocated in some way, and the conscientious journalist 
will not accept courtesies for which he cannot return a quid pro 
quo. The principals of reciprocity and compensation must be 
recognized by right-minded men. The shows demand notices in 
exchange for courtesies, and the railroads expect advertising. 
As to the latter, the restrictions of the Interstate Commerce Com- 
mission in the past few years have compelled the roads to dis- 
continue the issuance of editorial transportation on interstate 
trips, and the more recent legislation has caused the lines to be 
drawn still closer. 



After I assumed a managerial position, I was solicited so 
frequently for railroad transportation and hotel due-bills, some- 
times by people who pretended to buy them at reduced rates, but 
principally by those who were simply “on the work,” and not 
infrequently by frauds or newspaper bums who had not a shadow 
of claim to them, on their own account or for any other reason, 
that I had a sign printed to show to such nervy folks. It was to 


36 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


the effect that my office was not a general transportation agency, 
a cut-rate ticket office, nor an amusement bureau. 

To return to the subject of the circus: My companion and I 
“saw the elephant,” drank red lemonade and ate peanuts, to my 
heart’s content on the festive occasion, and I forthwith decided 
that Little Rock was a perfect heaven on earth — the greatest place 
in the world. 

When I came back from the circus, the company’s mechanical 
engineer, who seemed to take an unusual interest in me, kindly 
undertook to find a boarding house for me, which I had over- 
looked doing in my mad pursuit of pleasure. He took me to one 
which was conducted by three estimable old maids, named Hill 
— almost “as old as the hills,” who, after they became aware of 
my many virtues, treated me like a son. 

It was at this pleasant boarding house that I subsequently 
met a sweet girl, whose occasional sight somehow exercised such 
an influence over me as to give me an added interest in life, and 
to put romance into the somewhat prosaic work which I had 
undertaken in my new home. 

I have therefore often thought that there was something more 
than mere chance that directed me both to the Gazette office and 
to this simple boarding house; and I firmly believe that there is 
“a divinity that shapes our ends.” 

“Dory,” the engineer, was a big-hearted Irishman. He is 
dead now, but I shall always revere his memory. He probably 
saved my life some time after I became connected with the plant, 
by hauling me out of the press-room basement during a fire, when 
I was asleep down there on a pile of mail sacks. “Kid, let’s get 
out of here quick,” said he. He almost saved my life previous to 
this, on the first night I went to work there, in another way. 

I had not prepared for the demands of a healthy appetite 
during the night while at work, by bringing a lunch with me, as 
the other employees did, and it being my first experience at night 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


37 


work, I got ravenously hungry before morning. He found it out 
and turned over to me his lunch basket, bountifully filled, letting 
me think it had been sent to me from the boarding house. I ate 
every mouthful of its contents, and enjoyed it as I remember 
relishing few meals. I was afterward told of “Dory’s” generous 
sacrifice — that he had said he was sorry for the “kid,” as he called 
me, and had given me his supper. I felt that I had imposed upon 
him, and apologized, but he only laughed good-naturedly, as he 
watched me stack papers. 




CHAPTER IV. 

THE MAILING CLERK— PRINTING OFFICE TRICKS. 


S the mailing clerk, I was to succeed a young man who was 



transferred to another department, but who was to remain 
with me until I had “learned the ropes.” 

Charles and Theodore McKowan were two of my co-laborers. 

I am free to confess that I had been greatly mistaken in 
regard to the kind of work I was to do, but I hoped eventually 
to get something better, and determined, instead of throwing up 
the sponge, to stick and try to work up. 

If my mother had seen me at the mail-table in the press room, 
working away at a pile of papers, my sleeves rolled up, wearing a 
big apron, a blue pencil behind my ear, my clothes bespattered 
with paste, and my face smeared with dust and ink, she would 
hardly have recognized her darling eldest boy. 

Subscribers to out-of-town publications that go through the 
mails have noticed the little yellow or red address labels that are 
stamped on the first page of their papers — sometimes appearing 
right across the headline or in the most interesting part of an 
article of which they are anxious to read every word, instead of 
on the white margin of the sheet, where it should have been. 

This old process of addressing papers and magazines is still 
used, but few outside of the publication offices know how the 
labels are affixed, or the way in which these little slips are made 
to register accurately on every copy of the paper the name and 
date of the expiration of the subscription. A world of book- 
keeping is avoided by this simple system. The names as received 
are set into type, with the date of expiration, and carried on 
galleys, from which proofs on special colored paper are taken. 
The strips on which the names appear are pasted together and 
placed in what is called a Dick Mailing Machine (out of the 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


39 


invention of which a minister made a fortune), and by its use 
are stamped on the papers by hand. I was to perform this work. 
I set the names in type, affixed the printed slips on papers or 
packages, and then dispatched the mail. There were two editions 



The Dick Mailer. 


of the paper then, — one at midnight, which was sent to subscribers 
on north and south railroads, and the regular morning, or com- 
plete, paper, issued at about 4 a. m., which went to city sub- 
scribers and those at out-of-town points which could not be reached 
by the early edition. 

I do not wish to give away any state secrets relative to circu- 
lations, because it is an ethic of our profession to respect such 
things, but I will say that it is a fact that I often carried an entire 
mail edition of the paper to the post-office in a sack on my back, 
— and I am no Sandow in strength. 

The circulation of the weekly edition at that time was much 
larger than that of the daily edition, and the former was sent to 
the post-office in express wagons or hand-carts. 

Rushing frequently out of a hot press-room into the open air 
with the mails for the post-office, without taking time properly to 


40 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


clothe myself for going out on the street, was injurious to my 
health, but it was necessary to be in a rush to catch the mails, as 
is the case in most newspaper offices. 

I suffered many trials in learning the work, and it seemed 
that some of the boys were a little hard on me. Somehow, men 
seldom take pleasure in instructing new hands, especially if they 
fear they are going to be supplanted in some way, unless they 
enjoy the mistakes made by the novice. The old man in the 
service usually endeavors to impress the apprentice with the heav- 
iest parts of the work, and seldom does he try to make his early 
efforts agreeable. The domineering air of superiority with which 
a regular instructs a green hand in his duties is often amusing — 
to everybody except the new man. Man’s mean traits evidence 
themselves in petty ways. 

It is almost the invariable custom to impose various tricks 
on the greenhorn when he enters an establishment. I did not 
escape. The initiatory tricks of a printing office are numerous, 
and the hazing at West Point or at some of our colleges is not in 
it with the kind done at the average printshop. One of the oldest 
tricks is to show the newcomer the “type-lice.” Doubtless every 
printer knows what this means, but some of my readers may not 
have heard of it. The neophyte is asked if he has ever seen those 
peculiar little insects which are supposed to live and wax fat on 
the ink which clings to the type. Of course, he will say no, and 
usually evince much curiosity to see some of them, especially if 
he is of an enquiring mind. If he doesn’t voluntarily ask to see 
the “type-lice,” he is cunningly led up to the point of making such 
a request. He is then taken over to the composing-stones, and 
directed to look down between two divided parts of a column of 
standing type in a “form.” The hole has previously been filled 
with water, in joyful anticipation of working the gag, and while 
he is stooping down over the form, straining his eyes in an effort 
to see the lice, somebody quickly joins the broken column by 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


41 


pushing up one end of it or closing both ends. The result is 
that the embryo printer has his face beautifully bespattered with 
dirty, inky water. Everybody laughs, of course. I was subjected 
to this joke early in the game, and the customary horse-laugh 
was indulged in at my expense. 



Seeing the Type-Lice. 


I was also induced to go around to a neighboring printing 
office to borrow italic quads, the ridiculousness of which should 
have appealed to me. They tried to send me out to borrow a 
meat augur and a round square, and to play other pranks on me, 
but I finally got wise and balked. 

As most of my work was done at night, I at first found it 
difficult to stay awake. My companions soon broke me of my 
drowsy habits, though, by placing paper between my fingers and 
setting fire to it. The treatment was somewhat cruel, but it was 
very effective. 

Most printers are good fellows, but one of the meanest tricks 
that was ever played on me was perpetrated by a printer. This 
man took an insane notion to get married, but was short on 


42 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


clothes. At a time when I was going to see the girls and wore good 
clothes, he borrowed the best suit I had to wear at his wedding. 
He went off in it to spend his honeymoon, and I never saw him 
or my suit any more. 

But, on the whole, my associates at the plant were a jolly, 
good-natured crowd, and many the innocent joke they cracked, 
to my amusement. 

One of my running-mates was Christopher Ledwidge, who 
entered the shop as an apprentice at about the same time that I 
went to work there. We often played checkers together before 
going to work in the evening, and we sometimes played croquet 
with some of the girls in the yard of my lodging-house. Chris was 
a real nice, good little printers’ “devil,” but he soon saw better 



opportunities elsewhere, and he deserted the printing office, 
taking up a business connection, and finally becoming a poli- 
tician, as well as something of a capitalist. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


43 


Another of my early associates was Ed. L. Brown, and we 
formed a partnership to solicit for and print a Theatre Program, 
under an arrangement with the old Capital Theatre, on whose 
boards I have seen many famous actors. (This theatre was de- 
stroyed by fire a few years ago). 

Another of my pals was Henry L. Standley, whom, in the 
changes of the years, I have lost sight of. 

One day shortly after my arrival, the Gazette came out in a 
bran new dress, which is the way newspaper men refer to the 
setting of the reading matter of a newspaper in new type. 

IN BLACK AND WHITE PRINT. 

The Gazette has a new dress of type, 

And she looks like a sixteen-year-old. 

As she galivants ’round about town, 

The old gossip! The news must be told. 

The new garb has a striking effect. 

See how chipper she bobs up today! 

Our beloved old dame of the press, 

In a black and white print has grown gay. 


CHAPTER V. 

MY FRIENDS, THE PRINTERS 


“Pick and click 

Goes the type in the stick, 

As the printer stands at his case; 

His eyes glance quick, and his fingers pick 
The type at a rapid pace; 

And one by one as the letters go 
Words are piled up steady and slow — 
Steady and slow. 

But still they grow, 

And words of fire they soon will glow; 
Wonderful words, that without a sound 
Traverse the earth to its utmost bound.” 



The mails were made up in a section of the press-room, but 
the galleys in which the subscribers’ names were carried were cor- 



Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


45 


rected or brought up to date each day in the composing-room, 
while I reported to the business office, so that I was thrown more 
or less with all three of those departments. 

Although I could not be a participant, I was present when 
many a chapel meeting was held by the Union printers. At these 
meetings momentous questions were frequently discussed and 
passed upon. That ancient and honorable institution know as 
the “chapel” (which is said to have been so-called because Caxton 
set up his press in a chapel at Westminster), with its “daddy” and 
the rules made there to regulate the relations between the men 
and the company, as well as for the settlement of differences 
between the printers themselves, was a study to me. 

This was in the good old days of hand-composition, when 
the forms were locked with wooden quoins. The compositors 
were paid by the piece, the scale of compensation being 35 cents 
per thousand ems of 8-point, straight matter. The “head” and 
“ad” men were able to make more money than those on straight 
reading matter, and they paid a bonus to the chapel, which di- 
vided it among the members. 

I went to the office to correct the mail galleys at about the 
same time that the printers reported for duty. They usually ap- 
peared before the hour for regular composition work, to measure 
their “strings,” by which they calculated their pay, and to dis- 
tribute their “takes” of the matter which was set up the night 
previously — i. e., place the type back in the cases after it had 
been printed. Lazy printers sometimes hired their type “thrown 
in,” as they called distributing it, and I occasionally earned a 
little money in this way. I have known unscrupulous men to 
throw handfuls of “pi” out of the window into the alley, as the 
easiest way to dispose of it. 

This kind of work has been revolutionized as to straight 
reading matter composition, by the introduction of the Mergen- 
thaler Linotype, which typesetting machine the great and witty 


46 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


William Jennings Bryan says is the greatest machine ever invented, 
except the Philadelphia Republican Machine. The distribution 
of advertising type has also generally been superseded in the im- 
portant offices, except as to the larger faces, through the Mono- 
type non-distribution system. 



The Monotype. 


I am reminded of one old-time knight of the composing- 
stick, who bitterly resented the intrusion of the typesetting ma- 
chine, as most of the early craftsmen do — because each man thinks 
the only way to do is as he learned to do. He was offered a 
place to operate a machine when the hand jobs became vacant on 
account of the introduction of machines. He haughtily declined 
and quit the shop, saying, “/ ’m a printer; Vm no piano-player” 
There was a restless class of humanity in the printing fra- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


47 


ternity, and it has been said that the printer is no good until he 
has seen the road. Many of the old-timers worked in all the best 
known offices from Maine to California and from Canada to the 
Gulf of Mexico, but this specimen is dying out. The printer has 
become steadier and improved in every respect during recent years. 

We are all familiar with the old-time tramp printer or com- 
positorial tourist, representative of the “art preservative of all 
arts,” who wanted to borrow a dollar, he said, for a bed or a 
supper, but who usually spent the money, if you “coughed up,” 
at the nearest saloon. He always had suffered some temporary 
embarrassment, or was going to a point not far distant, where he 
had friends galore and a good bank account. He “subbed” for 
a few nights and then moved on, his clothes unpressed, his shoes 
run down at the heel and unshined, with hardly a cent in his 
pockets, but possessing a lot of experience, plenty of good humor, 
and always as happy as a lord. But the printer is no longer a 
tough, who travels in box cars. He has settled down and bought 
a Ford. 

One night one of the printers, who was known as “Slim,” 
went off on a spree. The next evening he was guyed by the boys 
for having been caught by a “cop” and treated to a ride to the 
calaboose in the “Black Maria,” as the police patrol-wagon was 
called. He took it good-naturedly, and with some feeling, recited 
the following lines, to express his chagrin: 

“When your heels hit hard and your head feels queer, 

And your thoughts foam up like the froth on the beer; 

When your legs grow weak, and your voice grows strong, 

And you laugh like a fool at some low, vulgar song; 

You’re drunk, by gosh, you’re drunk! 

“When you wake up in the morning feeling all in, 

And search your pockets in vain for the ‘tin’ 

You last night so freely and gaily blew in; 

And mutter to yourself, ‘What a d — nd fool I’ve been,’ 

You’re sober, then, you’re sober. 


48 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


L’ENVOI. 

“It’s no time for song and laughter, 

In the cold, gray dawn of the morning after.” 

A printer who holds a “card” — as a certificate of member- 
ship, with dues paid up, in the Typographical Union, is called — 
usually may get a day’s work as a substitute in almost any print- 
ing office. Indeed, it is required by the Union that a regular, 
after he has worked his allotted number of hours, must “lay off” 
when necessary to give the stranger a chance to work. There is 
perhaps no other trade or profession in which a man can afford to 
be so independent. This was especially true before the invention 
of the typesetting machine, about thirty years ago. 

Our office was favored with visits from hundreds of the 
peregrinating type. Most of them left some mark of their presence 
and their respect in the office or elsewhere in the city. Sometimes 
it was on the police record, and often it was a little memento in 
the shape of an I. 0. U., which was never honored. The follow- 
ing is an interesting and amusing record of impressions left by 
some of them on the walls of a closet in the composing room, as 
copied and edited, with its accompanying introduction, by Mr. 
Fred Heiskell: 

“For some reason there has always been about the newspaper 
business much of Bohemia, and this condition exists in some 
degree to this good day, though the necessities of the business, the 
hurry, the bustle and the many calls on newspaper men, from 
press-room to composing-room, for quick, decisive, sure action, 
have eliminated much of the Bohemianism. Still there linger 
many memories of the days that were palmy; the days of the 
tourist-printer, the man who floated, leaving behind him as he 
went from place to place, a smile, a new story, and an odor of 
intoxicants. In this life there were no continued stories. Each 
day was a book unto itself and bedtime rounded it out and 
finished it forever. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


49 


“Just now some changes are being made in the composing- 
room, and an old closet, where in days agone, the printers hung 
their coats and other clothing, was dismantled, and for the first 
time in many years the light of day fell on its walls. The walls 
compose a huge autograph album, where names of tourists who 
travelled years ago, are inscribed, and where there are many evi- 
dences of the wit and the happy-go-lucky disposition of the old- 
time journeyman printer. 

“In bold letters, as if proud of his poverty, one who may be 
remembered by printers yet alive, wrote: 

“ ‘Richard Johnson — On the Bum!’ 

“A wag who hung his coat in the closet later, could not resist 
such a splendid opportunity, and wrote under the inscription: 

“ ‘Richard is himself again!’ 

“On another part of the wall is written in grandiloquent 
flourishes : 

“ ‘Robert Burns Thomas, the printer poet, arrived July 10th.’ 

“The inevitable wag added to this inscription, some days later : 

“ ‘Jumped his board bill July 25th.’ 

“Some printer with old-fashioned ideas, probably moved by 
seeing the autographs and ribald jests, for some of them are 
ribald, wrote: 

“ ‘Fools’ names are, as fools’ faces, 

Always seen in public places!’ 

“Up bobs the jester and writes under it: 

“ ‘Why, I don’t see your’s here!” 

“One of a pair of partners on the road wrote: 

“ ‘Jones and Johnson started for Phoenix, Arizona, Sept. 5th.’ 

“And under it is written: 

“ ‘And they won’t have to pay excess baggage charges on 
their bank rolls, either.’ 

“About another inscription, and the postscript of one who 
knew, there is a touch of sadness. It is written: 


50 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


“ ‘Bill Gutherie left town today for Californy, December 9th.’ 

“Under this is written: 

“ ‘There goes my three dollars toward the setting sun. Good- 
bye, Bill; farewell, three!’ 

“It is evident that Bill was a borrower. 

“One man wrote a continued story on the walls. The first 
chapter is: 

“ ‘Robert Adams, seeking greener fields and pastures new, 
left this 30th day of August for the North.’ 

“Nearby is written: 

“ ‘Robert Adams has been North. ‘Niggers’ and ‘two-nicks’ 
and nothing else. Stopped over here to get a meal and a dollar. 


Stand aside, I’m bound for the Gulf Coast’: 

“REGISTER FOR ‘HOBO’ PRINTERS. 

“ ‘NOTICE : It is requested that none but tourists register in this chart. 


Name, 

Where From 

What 

Conveyance 

Condition 
of Chewing 

How Finances 

Where Bound 

Remarks for En- 
lightenment of 
the Craft 

Sam Cribbs, 
Kansas 
(laugh, 
damn you). 

Blind 

Baggage. 

Route 

overworked. 

Too heavy to 
carry (I will 
have my 
joke) . 

Heaven is my 
destination. 

Let bleeding Kansas 
bleed; I’ll not try 
to stanch its 
wounds. 

Tom Harper, 
Hades 
(called also 
Memphis) . 

The cinder 
path. 

Good. 

Money ! 

Money ! 

I’ve heard 
that before. 

To some haven 
of rest where 
they toil not, 
but have plenty. 

Memphis is a good 
town to be from. 

Ernest 

Newell, 

Louisiana. 

Side door 
Pullman. 

Fit for the 
best. 

Not burdened 
with the fithy 
stuff. 

This will do; 
I’m not par- 
ticular. 

This printing busi- 
ness is no job for 
a clergyman’s son. 

Ed Douglass, 
Bosting. 

The trucks 
(I blush to 
say it ) . 

Good, if one 
is fond of 
beans. 

Light- 

exceeding 

light. 

Any place will 
suit me; I’ve 
lived in Bos- 
ting. 

Experience comes 
with travel. If I 
wasn’t a tourist, I’d 
turn out tomorrow. 

Albert 

Duncan, 

Texas. 

Lightlv (I 
tripped 
along the 
ties) . 

Nothing to 
brag on. 

Bad. 

Where work is 
lightest. 

Have no advice to 
give nor excuses to 
offer. 

Walter 

McNeil, 

Missouri. 

In a stock 
car with 
some other 
hogs. 

Awful. 

Awful. 

Any place but 
Missouri. 

Keep away from 
Joplin, Mo. 

Will Elkins, 
St. Louis. 

In the var- 
nished cars. 

The service 
in the din- 
ing car was 
rather good. 

If I was any 
more prosper- 
ous I couldn’t 
stand it. 

Monte Carlo, 
maybe. 

When the bang tails 
run your way, 
money certainly 
comes easy. 


“ ‘NOTICE SOME MORE. — Tourists without bullion will please mention the name of 
“Peso” Jones; it rolls well under the tongue and breathes of money. Also a slight reference 
to “Shorty” Thomas would come in handy if you desire to perish in the sight of plenty. 
Shorty is sure a light-wad.’ ” 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


51 


“In nearly every printing office there is a man who saves 
his money and adds to it by lending it to his spendthrift fellow- 
craftsmen at a most exorbitant rate of interest. The time of the 
loan is until the pay-day after the loan is made. These men are 
known as ‘Shylocks.’ It is evident that ‘Shorty’ Thomas, men- 
tioned in the footnote to the preceding chart, which was marked 
off on the walls and in which many were registered, was at one 
time the shylock of the office.” 

So much for the genus hobo. He is an interesting type or 
typ-o, whose passing leaves a perceptible void. Other trades have 
a similar following. All of the printer craft are not to be judged 
by him, and I do not wish to appear as speaking disrespectfully 
of the printer. There have been many Benjamin Franklins and 
other illustrious printers. He is necessarily intelligent from the 
nature of his occupation, and he gets more out of life than the 
average man. He is also a useful citizen, for his is “the hand 
that keeps the world informed.” 

While operating a linotype machine for a livelihood, Dr. 
0. K. Judd, a former printer, who now stands high in the medical 
profession, studied medicine and got a diploma. Another of the 
Gazette’s printers studied law while working every day at his 
trade and did not leave the case until he obtained a license to 
practice. They are both successfully following their professions, 
illustrating what can be done when men try. 

Some years ago there was a certain printer working on the 
Gazette, — and a right good fellow he was, — who grew tired of 
the trade and sighed for riches. So he let his hair grow long 
until it extended over his shoulders, got a medicine wagon, a 
negro clown, and advertising himself as the “Quaker Physician,” 
went through the country selling medicines. He was soon coining 
money. 

Another printer, who was a proud man, was studying law. 
He wouldn’t carry a lunch basket for the midnight meal, as others 


52 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


did, because he was too much of a dude to do so, but he always 
had a law book under his arm. It was suggested to him by an- 
other printer that he have a lunch box made of leather in the 
shape of a law book, and labeled “Arkansas Digest,” which would 
be of practical utility and he could still continue to impress folks 
thereby with his distinguished legal pretensions. 

At the beginning of the Spanish-American War a patriotic 
and warlike printer interested himself in organizing a volunteer 
infantry company. The paper announced one morning that the 
company being recruited by him made rapid progress toward 
completion the day before, mentioned the names of those who 
had enlisted to shoulder the musket in defense of the national 
honor, and ended the notice by saying that the company would 
probably be full by the next Monday night. The writer of the 
item did not intend to reflect on the patriots by the use of the 
word “full,” in its popularly accepted meaning among rounders, 
but it is a fact that a number of the captain’s volunteers were 
gloriously drunk before the time mentioned. Many of them, 
however, did go to the front, including the gallant Captain, and 
they made brave and honorable records in that war. 

It is the rule that men engaged in one line of work like to 
josh those who make their living by some other means, and a man 
can always see the weaknesses of the other fellow, when he is 
blind to his own. It is the old case referred to in the Bible about 
the moat. 


THE POINT OF VIEW. 

By the Printers — 

Of all the crazy editors 

Whose copy we have set, 
The worst are in this office, 
We’ll wager a fat bet. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


53 


The mess of hieroglyphics 
They dish out is a fright; 

Men ought to learn the alphabet 
Before they try to write. 

By the Editors — 

Of all the rotten printers, 

Our bunch sure takes the cake; 

Just note the glaring errors 
In every blessed take. 

If anything’s set rightly, 

It’s only by mistake; 

And all the boobs are good for 
Is cuss and belly-ache. 



The Linotype. 


CHAPTER VI. 


REMEMBRANCES OF HAPPY DAYS SPENT IN THE 
PRESS-ROOM. 

W/HILE engaged in putting up newspaper mails, I labored for 
something like a year in the press-room, by the side of the 
faithful old press that ground out the papers, hot with the news of 
the day. 

The superintendent of the press-room was “monarch of all 
he surveyed” down there. I came to have a great admiration for 
this pressman, whose name was Capt. W. I. Whitwell, and who 
had held the position faithfully for a quarter of a century, a 
remarkable record in the printing business, where those composing 
the mechanical forces, as a rule, are constantly changing. This 
man was a strong character, standing six feet, two inches, in his 
stockings, well built, distinguished looking, and the “Iron Chan- 
cellor” was not more austere and could have been no more severe. 
For many years he was a terror to meddlesome boys and to hobos 
who frequented the basement. He spanked many of the boys and 
almost scared others to death when they attempted to get gay; 
and yet some thieving newsboy would occasionally evade his 
eagle eye, break through the lines, and steal the press-room out 
of papers. A little of the Captain’s “strap oil,” as a licking with 
a strap was called, was a good thing to cure a boy of “cutting 
up” in the place. 

The superb quality of the Captain’s nerve is illustrated by 
an episode which I will mention. It is related that when he 
entered the employ of the concern he was afflicted with cross- 
eyes. Some time afterward a traveling occulist reached the city, 
and the Captain decided to have him straighten his eyes. Whit- 
well was accustomed to sleep in the day time, on account of 
working at night, so that he had the eye-doctor come to the work- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


55 


room to perform the operation. He is said to have run off one 
side of the paper (this having occurred prior to the time when the 
perfecting press, which would print both sides at once, was 
invented), and then he had his eyes operated on. The operation 
was performed, pronounced a success, and the patient lay down 
to rest his optics for a while, after which he got up, put the forms 
on the press for the second half of the paper and made the run. 

The old man was disposed to be a little rough on me at first, 
but he and I soon became fast friends, and he has since laughed 
many a time about the days when he bossed me in the hole in the 
ground called the press-room, while later on, as business man- 
ager, I was supposed to be his boss. 

Between the editions of the paper, there were waits of several 
hours, and at these times I read or slept on the mail table, or went 
to the theatre, when there was a good show in town. I liked to 
read, and sometimes made a pallet of mail sacks, with a roll 
of paper for a pillow, and read until it was time to resume work. 
The pressman thought I was reading the ordinary dime novel or 
blood-and-thunder story, until one day I heard him tell some- 
body that he had discovered that I read “classical books.” 

If this gentleman was friendly to you, he was a friend in- 
deed, but if anyone tried to impose on him, there were likely to be 
squalls — especially if at the time his temper was aroused there 
happened to exist around the press a tendency to static electricity, 
which caused the paper web to break and stop the machine. 
Static electricity — which is sometimes generated through the con- 
tact of paper with metal cylinders and felt blankets — and the 
Captain’s particular brand of profanity, on a cold, frosty morn- 
ing, formed a combination fearful to contemplate. 

Static electricity in the pressroom atmosphere, by the way, 
was often fallen back on as an excuse when the paper was late 
in appearing. It was a handy alibi resorted to by the gang in 
the pit. But the office boy generally explained to “kickers” when 


56 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


the delivery was late that “the press broke down.” I think our 
press went down a thousand times, according to this authority. 

I am not sure that it wasn’t a certain assistant pressman, 
instead of the Captain, who originated the static electricity gag 
in our office to explain mishaps to the press. Anyway, the excuse 
was worked successfully and sometimes over-time for a number of 
years. 

“What’s the matter with the press?” would be asked, when 
it “bucked.” 

“Oh, the d — thing’s got electricity in it.” 

There was one peculiar point in this connection which never 
could be satisfactorily explained, and that was that the more 
spirits fermenti there happened to be in the lockers of the crew, 
the greater the danger of there being electricity in the press. 

The assistant pressman referred to lived to become a great 
politician, whose influence with the workingman was powerful. 
He left the press-room to become a linotype machinist, but later 
became an officer of the National Machinists’ Union. As a 
traveling representative of that order, he put on more style 
than does the President of the United States. 

In 1889 a Webb Perfecting Press, the first one brought to the 
State, was bought and installed by the Gazette. This press was 
a source of wonder to the people, and thousands visited the place 
at night to see it in operation and to watch the process of making 
into metal curved plates the matrix impressions formed from 
the type. 

The press was in reality more of a wonder than it seemed. 
It was a second-hand machine, of the first Hoe four- and eight- 
plate pattern. It was thirty feet in length, including the folder, 
and it looked more like a threshing machine than the present type 
of press, except that it had an endless number of cogs and tapes 
on it. Although it was out-of-date in style, it was constructed 
of splendid material, and it stood a lot of punishment. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


57 


Up to this time the paper had been printed on a two-revolu- 
tion flat bed press, which had to be fed by hand, a sheet at a time. 
— a slow process. 



An Old Two-Revolution Flat Bed Press. 


When the first perfecting press was displaced in 1903 with 
a modern one, which would print up to 16 pages, the old one, on 
account of being so antiquated in style, could not be sold as a 
printing press, and had to be disposed of as old metal to a junk 
dealer. I made the trade, and saw it smashed up with a sledge 
hammer. It originally cost about $10,000, but when discarded as 
junk it brought exactly $135.15. I was attached to the machine, 
and disliked to see it go in this way, as it was like parting with 
an old friend. The gentle reader may imagine how this sordid 
transaction touched my tender heart by reading the following 
pathetic rhymes which the occasion inspired: 

THE PRESSMAN’S FAREWELL. 

Faithful old Pal of Mine! 

I first wound felten blankets ’round you, 

Dressed you in type, then fed you ink 

And paper, and when work stress found you, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


58 



I greased your throbbing gears 
To meet the strain of years 
’Mid storms of news which made the press wheels fly, 
But we must say good-bye! 


Faithful Old Press of Mine! 

The publishers and printers praised us, 

As fast you sped with cheerful vim 
To print such orders as amazed us 
For papers packed with news 
And entertaining views 
Of men and things then in the public eye. 
’Tis hard to say good-bye! 


Disabled friend of mine! 

Your massive iron limbs lie broken, 

And silent is your heart of steel; 

Your last hummed word of print is spoken, 
The sordid junkman owns 
Your old discarded bones; 

I, too, am gray; Fate’s pendulum! we sigh. 
Good-bye, old pal, good-bye! 


While working at the mailing-tables in the press-room, I un- 
dertook the study of shorthand, and induced the office steno- 
grapher to give me instruction in making pothooks, dots and 
dashes, at her home. One of my printer friends joined me in this 
course of study, and we had a jolly little class. Our instructress 
was capable, handsome and witty, and my association with her 
is a pleasant remembrance. At her instance, I bought a copy of 
Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, to be used for translation as an 
exercise in shorthand. This good old book was used on account 
of its well-known simple language. 

The office allowed me to practice on one of the company’s 
typewriters, so that by the hunt and peck system, I was acquiring 
proficiency in that line also while perfecting myself in the art of 
phonography. 

My wages in the beginning were the whole sum of $10.00 a 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


59 


week, which would be considered an insignificant salary in these 
inflated days, when an inexperienced office-boy expects to draw 
$25.00 a week and a skilled plumber receives $10.00 a day, but on 
those glorious Saturday afternoons, always looked forward to 
with longing, when the “ghost walked” and I drew my magnifi- 
cent allowance in one unbroken piece, enclosed in an envelope 
bearing my name, having contracted the bad habit of occasionally 
puffing the weed, I would buy a five-cent cigar — an unknown 
article at this time — and then — 

“I thought myself a king of earth, 

A being born to rule — 

But never since my wretched birth 
Was I so big a fool.” 



“I Thought Myself a King of Earth.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


A PROMOTION. 

A S SOON as I had learned to write shorthand and to finger the 
typewriter a bit, I was transferred from the mailing depart- 
ment to the business office, as stenographer and subscription 
clerk. “Stenographer” in our office in those days, however, meant 
that the person who held that responsible and high-sounding po- 
sition must be a sort of a general utility man, and principally 
office-boy; but I rightly considered it a good opportunity for 
me, and I grasped it with alacrity, not minding at all if they 
put “0. B.” behind my name on the pay-roll. 

My first assignment was to file about a month’s accumula- 
tion of letters, and ever since the work of filing letters is the first 
thing a new boy is required to do when he goes to work in this 
office. I was then gradually broken in to write letters from 
dictation, and later was also frequently given all kinds of matter 
to write or copy, such as special news, telegrams and adver- 
tising write-ups. Then when work was slack in the office, I was 
sent out to collect subscription bills. It seemed that I was ex- 
pected to do any old thing, so that I was never allowed to be idle, 
and time never hung heavily on my hands. This was the best 
thing in the world for me, although I did not at all times 
realize it. 

The manager represented several out-of-town newspapers 
as their special correspondent, particularly the Globe-Democrat, 
of St. Louis, and, as he often dictated his “specials” to me, I thus 
obtained valuable experience and knowledge along that line. I 
am thankful for it, as the practice served me well, when in later 
years I became a newspaper correspondent myself for several 
large city dailies, and thus added considerably to my income. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


61 


I am conscious that I made mistakes, but the management 
was always kind and patient in regard to my shortcomings. 

I learned to interview people through my shorthand, and, 
having read that Charles Dickens learned shorthand and thus 
became a celebrated reporter of the English Parliament, I de- 
sired to emulate him. At first I relied much on phonography, 
but I discovered that that kind of reporting was almost useless, 
except in exceptional cases, when it was absolutely necessary to 
get a man’s exact language, as in taking the testimony of a wit- 
ness in court. The interviewer must do a lot of thinking, and 
the most valuable man to a newspaper unquestionably is that one 
who is capable of rapidly making a running report of a speech, 
getting the meat out of the subject, without having to transcribe 
the matter from voluminous notes. According to my experience, 
the training of the shorthand man to take down everything by 
sound, interferes with the making of the ideal reporter, who 
should grasp only that which is important and interesting. The 
ordinary man’s mind can not well be trained to do both of 
these things, and therefore a stenographer is one thing, and a re- 
porter another. They are separate callings. 

I remember that I was once sent to interview a prominent 
banker, named Logan H. Roots, in regard to his having been 
spoken of as a candidate for the Republican nomination for Vice 
President of the United States. I could see very plainly the po- 
litical bee buzzing around his head. He was extremely nice to 
me, but he paid very little attention to my interrogations. He 
wanted to be interviewed for the paper, but he wished to fur- 
nish both the questions and the answers thereto, which he was 
allowed to do. In this case, merely a stenographer was needed. 

This man did not achieve his political ambition, but, in pass- 
ing, let me say that when he died the newspaper men of Arkan- 
sas lost one of their best friends. He was a great man, who 
sometimes used the scribes to further his ends, as most public 


62 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


men have done, but he never failed to liberally reward the news- 
paper for any service rendered him. 

A man who owned the paper before my day, told me that 
he did his banking with Colonel Roots, and that when he would 
get hard-up he would rely on the Colonel to grant him a loan; 
but before making application to him, he would always send 
around Opie Read, then a reporter on the paper, to give Roots 
a nice write-up, and in such a case he was never disappointed. 

Like many others who enjoy seeing their names in print, he 
was not at all backward about asking a reporter to print what- 
ever he wanted to appear, but he would always give an order 
for a sufficient quantity of papers containing the item to make 
its publication profitable, and, besides, the matter was generally 
of public interest. He frequently wrote personals about himself 
or others, embellished with numerous complimentary adjectives, 
but an order for papers invariably accompanied them; and no 
special edition or general write-up of the city ever appeared, nor 
were any meritorious advertising schemes ever put over in the 
city, in his day, that did not contain an advertisement of his 
bank. 

This was long before a Retail Merchants Association was 
organized to sit in judgment on such enterprises as the numerous 
advertising projects. 

Then, every Christmas, some of the reporters received a little 
memento from him, and on New Year’s day the carrier boy who 
delivered his paper was usually the recipient of a coin at his hands. 

In this connection, I also remember the late Major John D. 
Adams, who was a great friend of all the carrier boys, and each 
year presented a five dollar gold piece to the boy on the Gazette 
route when he delivered his customary New Year Greeting. This 
gift at that time amounted to half as much as a year’s subscrip- 
tion to the paper. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


63 


The once-popular Carrier’s New Year Address has in recent 
years died out. God bless the carrier boy! 

The editor in his sanctum sits 
A’scanning news from everywhere; 

He adds to this, and cuts out that. 

Then writes the heads that often scare, 

But who it is brings you the news? 

The printer sets the stuff in type, 

Be it live news or foolishness; 

It’s placed in forms, made into mats, 

Then stereotyped to go to press, 

But some one must put out the goods! 

The carrier, up with the lark, 

With paper bundle, and light heart, 

Goes out to meeting the smiling morn’, 

And to perform his useful part. 

Tis he who brings the news to you. 

Oftimes your paper strikes the lawn, 

Or finds a mud-hole, wet and torn, 

Instead of landing at your door, 

But all the news would die still-born, 

Except for this same car-ri-er! 




CHAPTER VIII. 


MR. H. G. ALLIS— “PARADISE ALLEY.”— REVERSES OF 
ONE OF THE OWNERS OF THE PAPER. 

T DID not meet the principal owner of the paper, Mr. Horace G. 

Allis, for some time after I went with it, as he was not actively 
connected with its control. The first time I saw him was during 
the Presidential election, in November, 1884, when Cleveland 
was elected. There was a great deal of enthusiasm in Little 
Rock over the election of a Democratic President. On the night 
of the election the paper’s bulletins were eagerly devoured. He 
was pointed out to me by a fellow employee, as he stood on a 
platform at the corner of Markham and Scott streets, where the 
Gazette office was located, and read the returns to a vast crowd 
that had congregated there. His voice was splendid, for as he 
read he could be heard a block away. The impression he made 
on me then was lasting. His presence was dignified and com- 
manding, and he won my boyish admiration. 

At this time this gentleman held the position of auditor of 
a big railroad company, with offices at St. Louis. He later be- 
came cashier of a St. Louis bank. He visited us occasionally 
and went over the affairs of the concern. I never came in con- 
tact with a man who had as great a capacity for business and 
figures. He could apparently carry the entire contents of a 
mammoth ledger in his head. 

Although never pretending to be an editor, he was a writer 
of ability. I remember that, in the spring of 1888, he had a con- 
troversy through the paper with the Arkansas State Penitentiary 
Board, over the alleged mistreatment of convicts. He ably con- 
ducted his contention, and gave the people some startling facts 
in his communications. One night he wired a three-column 
article on this subject from St. Louis. This was known as the 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


65 


“Three Blind Mice” article, on account of his denouncing in it 
the three commissioners, which included the governor, as blind 
mice, because they had not kept themselves posted in regard to the 
inhumane manner in which the prisoners were said to have been 
treated by the penitentiary officials and guards, for which he 
charged that the commissioners were responsible. The article was 
caustic, logical, sensational and appealing. It caused the ques- 
tion to become an issue in the next gubernatorial campaign, and 
to nearly defeat Simon P. Hughes, the governor, for re-election. 

The writer of those articles was known to the public as merely 
a stockholder in the publishing company. Judge John McClure, 
one of Arkansas’ quaint and forcible characters, known as “Poker 
Jack,” sent word to the office that he ought to be promoted to 
the editorial corps. 

In 1887 one of the Gazette owners purchased the old Benja- 
min Block, on Center and Markham streets, and built an annex 
behind it, next to the government Custom House. The Gazette 
was then removed to that location. The paper was issued from 
this three-story building until its headquarters were again moved 
to the present fireproof Gazette building, on West Third street, 
in 1908. 

The Gazette Annex was connected with the main building by 
a narrow paved walk-way, which led to the side door of the press 
room, to the rear doors of other places of business on Markham 
street, and, which was more important, it was also the back en- 
trance to Garabaldi’s saloon, a noted resort in those days. This 
walk-way became known as “Paradise Alley,” and was famous in 
song and story — between drinks — and in police annals, as well 
as in newsboy history. Who christened it, nobody knows, but 
one night, years ago, some one painted the name on one of the 
walls, and it stuck. 

Through this alley had been rolled many barrels of red 
liquor, hundreds of kegs of black ink, and thousands of rolls 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


of white paper, while oceans of murky water flowed through it 
and flooded the tenants during heavy rains. It was therefore any- 
thing but an alley of paradise at times. 

PARADISE ALLEY. 

Boys, we cannot slip in Garry’s through the alley now, they say. 

For the “Judge” has issued orders that will close that gladsome way; 

What is known as Paradise Alley o’er the State from end to end, 

And was used to “rush the growler” and to treat a thirsty friend, 

Has been closed up by the mogul who presides at Fulk’s hotel, 

So, we’ll have to go in frontward to the bar we love so well. 

But remembrance of hot toddies 
And the friendship of the coddies 
Will insure it our attendance 
As of yore.* 

It’s been handy in hot weather and on rain days and nights, 

When our throats were dry and sticky, or we’d been to see the sights; 

It’s been useful to the good man who his whistle had to wet, 

’Though objecting to the public knowing where his drinks he’d get; 

But Gazette reporters, printers, and like sporty guys about, 

Who will get no nearer paradise, are now, alas! shut out. 

While the clink of friendly glasses, 

Round a bar which all surpasses. 

Is a place which grows upon them 
More and more. 

The accumulating traffic which extended over years 

Coming from the craving newsmen and like chasers after beers, 

Simply wore the alley out and made it dangerous to health, 

So it’s well that Paradise Alley, passes from the commonwealth; 

Boys, we cannot step in Garry’s via the alley anymore, 

But the front door still swings open, as inviting as of yore. 

And the palatable lunches, 

With the fun which comes in bunches, 

Will retain us as its patrons 
As before. 

*These lines were written before the legal dethronement of King Alcohol 
in the United States. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


67 


One of the principal owners of the Gazette became recog- 
nized as a financier, and had been looked up to as a model of 
the self-made man. This gentleman at one time was farther ad- 
vanced on the way to fame and wealth than almost any man in 
the State. Besides being the largest stockholder in the Gazette 
Publishing Company, he was president of a national bank, owned 
the only theatre in the city, and controlled the street railway 
system. His business associates and his employees worshipped 
him. But, he was too ambitious. My father was afraid that I 
had this weakness, and he cautioned me to have a care, reminding 
me that unbridled ambition was dangerous. This warning was 
not applicable to me, as I have been a snail, but this man wanted 
to soar like an eagle, and needed such advice. An uncle of his 
frequently uttered regret at his nephew’s seeming daring in tak- 
ing great financial burdens on his shoulders. 

When he acquired a piece of property it seems that he forth- 
with mortgaged it to obtain money with which to make some other 
investment. He had also accommodated many friends. Hard 
times overtook him when the great panic of 1893 came along. He 
had made extensive plans for the extension of the street railway. 
The slowing up of business and tightening of the money mar- 
ket rendered it impossible for him to meet his obligations. Ambi- 
tion and pride ran away with his judgment. He borrowed more 
money than he should have done from the bank of which he was 
the executive. Nobody who knows him believes for a moment that 
he was guilty of any dishonesty. He was the soul of honor, and 
if hard times had not overtaken him, he would have met all 
his obligations. But — oh, cruel fate! a national bank inspector 
stepped in at the wrong time. Technical discrepancies in the 
bank’s records were claimed to have been discovered. Unjust 
accusations followed, people became scared, and the bank failed. 
Other enterprises in which he was interested were involved through 
the bank’s failure, friends forsook him, to save themselves, or they 


68 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


were powerless to assist him. He was tried and convicted — un- 
justly, he claimed, and his friends believed — but the national 
banking laws are stringent. In the excitement resulting from 
mix-ups and losses, a victim was demanded, and he had to pay the 
penalty, — resulting in as much consternation as would be oc- 
casioned by the fall of an angel from heaven. His downfall also 
brought ruin to others. 


GRIM JUSTICE. 

A noble figure, justice stands, 

Eyes bandaged well, and scales in hands. 

Too stern, perhaps; for men forget 
Justice should lean to mercy yet. 

With sympathy w T e ponder well 
A man, a friend, who stumbled, fell — 

Mere human frailty, nothing more, 

His life all blameless lies before. 

The wheels of justice ground to doom, 

There seemed for mercy little room. 

The bars, the stripes, the moldy cell. 

His spirit’s ruination spell. 

Friends, station, prestige — all are lost. 

Ambition’s aims have dearly cost. 

All that a man in life holds high 
Has passed this man forever by. 

Our hearts grow heavy at his sight — 

Aged, crushed and bitter by his plight. 

Justice should more of mercy learn, 

Than wreck a life with blow too stern. 

After the talented, but unfortunate man referred to, who was 
my friend, served his prison term, he went to the Klondike, in a 
desire to retrieve his fortunes, but there and in other parts of 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


69 


the world where he made new starts, an unlucky star seemed to 
follow him. 


Some men go up, and others down, 
While onward wags the world; 
Today ’tis Smith who rules the town, 
With banners all unfurled; 
Tomorrow he has lost to Jones 
And to his doom is hurled. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT, AND ITS RELATION TO 
THE BUSINESS OFFICE. 

rpHE editor of the Gazette, when I favored the paper by connect- 
A ing myself with it, was the late D. A. Brower. He was a mild- 
mannered gentleman, a good, common-sense writer, not given to 
flowery productions, but, when aroused, sarcasm and irony were 
powerful weapons in his hands. He gave the people forceful and 
substantial mental pabulum, and safely piloted the paper’s course 
over many shoals. 

He was one of the original “free silver” advocates of this 
country, and his “dollar of the daddies” editorials were strong 
arguments for his side of the subject. Another hobby with him 
was “high license” as a means of regulating the liquor traffic. 

He got into a heated controversy on the subject of the Three- 
Mile Liquor Law with Dr. A. R. Winfield, a brilliant divine, 
who was then the editor of the Arkansas Methodist. As happened 
more frequently in those days than at the present time, this led 
to a personal difficulty on the street between Mr. Brower and 
Ed. Winfield, the son of the editor of the religious paper, who 
considered that Mr. Brower had unduly reflected upon the char- 
acter of his father. 

The Reverend Winfield was an aggressive writer, and he 
printed in the Methodist a number of charges and specifications 
against the editor of the Gazette, which Mr. Brower replied to and 
declared contained “slanders and falsehoods by the wholesale.” 

The editor of the Methodist accused the editor of the Gazette, 
who was conducting a Democratic newspaper, of having been a 
Republican, “the time and place of whose conversion to Democ- 
racy was less known than the burial place of Moses;” avowed that 
he hurled his poisoned arrows at every reform, and was ever on 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


71 


the side of bad government; that he tried to deliver the control 
of affairs over to whiskey-drinkers, poker-players and Sabbath- 
breakers; that the management of the paper had obtained business 
by false pretenses, in misstating, misrepresenting and grossly ex- 
aggerating its circulation; that the paper was unstable and un- 
reliable, in having been on both sides of the Three-Mile Law, 
first for it, and then against it, and had the same record in regard 
to the Occupation Tax, a new Constitution, and other questions. 

Mr. Brower’s editorial in reply was a bitter, sensational ar- 
raignment, covering almost a page of space, and was headed, 
“Is This Man Without Shame, Drunk or Crazy?” He took up 
each count of the indictment separately and entered a denial 
in toto, summing them up as “Winfieldian hogwash, of an un-’ 
savory brand,” inspired by malignity and senility. He declared 
that their author was as ignorant as a mule on questions of jour- 
nalism; that he knew nothing of Democracy, and if he had ever 
read the Ten Commandments, he had abandoned them for the 
Gospel of Hate; that he had certainly forgotten the command- 
ment, “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor,” 
etc. I quote Mr. Brower’s typical reply to the doubt expressed 
as to his Democracy : 

“The editor of the Gazette is not distressed about the quality 
of his Democracy. The doctrines given out in the Gazette are 
the doctrines he has upheld and advocated all his life. He has 
abundant reason for knowing they are endorsed by the democracy 
of Arkansas. If any person has told Brother Winfield that the 
editor of the Gazette, at any time, ever voted any other than a 
Democratic ticket, when political issues were involved, that per- 
son was either grossly mistaken or told him a stupid falsehood.” 

With great confidence, he concluded his broadside by af- 
firming that no one personally acquainted with the editor of the 
Gazette will question any statement of fact he makes. 

Mr. Brower was quite a society man, frequently at balls led 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


the then popular dance known as the German, and was always at 
the service of the aspiring social debutante. I shall always re- 
member him by a peculiar way he had of placing the fingers of 
both hands and striking them together, especially when talking. 
When he died, of consumption, in Colorado, July 18, 1893, we 
sent to his funeral a magnificent floral wreath, on which was 
worked in flowers the figures “30,” symbolical of the last “take” 
or piece of copy, as designated in a printing office. 

By the way, it is remarkable how few deaths there have been 
among Gazette men, considering the fact that editorial work is 
considered unhealthy, because of its being so confining and for 
the reason that writers sit in cramped positions; and when the 
same thing applies to printers, who are generally believed to 
belong to a trade that is injurious to health, on account of gas 
fumes and poisons resulting from handling metals. 

The Gazette has been a Democratic journal ever since the 
birth of that great political party, and many an inky battle has 
it fought with the Republicans. During the Reconstruction days, 
after the war between the States, Republican Carpet-Baggers came 
to Arkansas in great numbers — to see that the negro got his dues, 
and, incidentally, to feather their own nests. In after years, some 
of these gentlemen were not near so solicitious about their colored 
brethren, and tired of even political association with the negroes. 
Certain cliques organized a lily-white Republican party, to keep 
the negro out of office and from political recognition of any kind. 
The Republicans had no organ, and they frequently found fault 
with the Gazette’s treatment of them. 

“A LILY-WHITE.” 

(Supposed to be sung by a Republican.) 

I am a great Republican, 

A lily-white liued publican; 

I grant the fact myself. 

Regardless of all pelf, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


73 


So when you mention politics, 

Reporter, class me right 
As purest lily-white! 

When emigrating to the South ? 

To rule by acts and word of mouth, 

I was a carpet-bagger, 

Who would the white man stagger 
With equals rights for black and white, 

But I those acts regret; 

The past I would forget. 

I’ve grown to be a plutocrat, 

And ought to be a Democrat, 

But when the Rads get in, 

I must an office win, 

So I remain Republican — 

’Though, printer, get me right, 

I am a “lily-white.” 

It is not often that the business office is allowed to break 
into print in regard to its differences with the editorial depart- 
ment, but on one occasion this happened on the Gazette. In the 
“All-Over-Arkansas” column, there was printed the following 
squib, with its accompanying comment: 

“Every man should give his business a close and careful 
study. If he finds a loose nut in his business, he should tighten 
it up . — Conway Times. 

“There are several loose nuts in this business, all of whom 
are in our business office. — A. 0. A. Column 

The office made this reply: 

“The business office usually considers it beneath its notice 
to pay any attention the drivel emanating from the alleged Brain- 
ery up-stairs This screed would have passed unnoticed also, be- 
cause very few people outside of the man who amuses himself 
by practicing on such stuff and the poor proofreader ever read 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


it. But a fellow who had little to do chanced to read and call 
our attention to it. 

“It was a thrust below the belt, for the reason that the busi- 
ness office, while having to pay for getting out the paper, includ- 
ing the salaries to a lot of drones who spoil reams of good paper 
and otherwise waste time and money for the publishers, is not 
allowed to edit the vile stuff perpetrated by the editorial ‘nuts’ 
and ‘cheap screws,’ even when it reflects on its personnel. 

“Heretofore the editorial ‘wise acres” have always contended 
that the business office was composed of ‘tight-wads,’ instead of 
‘loose nuts,’ which is another evidence of the general inconsist- 
ency of the sap-headed crowd up there. 

“We dare the man who edits the column on the northeast cor- 
ner of the 6th page to print this — Business Office .” 

(It was printed) 

The differences between Up-Stairs and Down is a subject 
which has caused many internal and uncivil wars in the print 
shops of the country, and it is with temerity that I approach it. 

I have thought that the relationship which exists between the 
editorial department and the business office of a newspaper bore 
some resemblance to the domestic relation of husband and wife. 
Sometimes the editor “wears the pants,” so to speak, and some- 
times he does not. I have heard of the editor editing the business 
manager, and also of the business department managing the 
editor; but there never was much trouble of this kind in our 
office. Of course, little misunderstandings and differences of 
opinion will inevitably arise between the two departments. One 
of them may become possessed with the idea that the other is 
encroaching on its rights, or attempting to interfere with some of 
its prerogatives. The business manager, to make a fat adver- 
tising contract, may be tempted to place an unsightly ad. in a 
choice position on a certain page which interferes with a striking 
four or five section head, and then there is trouble in the camp. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


75 


Again, the editors will give some dead-beat a free write-up of 
himself or his business, which ought to have been paid for at line 
rates, when the business manager concludes that the editor isn’t 
“on to” his job. 

I have read some high-flown dissertations in the publications 
devoted to newspaper interests on the interesting subject of these 
little newspaper family troubles and conflicts of authority; and, 
strange to say, the authors of them generally take the editor’s part. 
They invariably lament the undue (?) power which the corrupt 
(?) business office exerts over the purer (?) editorial atmos- 
phere, through the patronage which the paper receives by w r av of 
the counting room. These pencil-pushers would bar the business 
manager entirely from the profession of journalism, and place 
him in the category of mere clerical laborers or commercial 
sharpers. 


THE AUNCIENTE FYTTE 
Between the Business Office and the Editorial Room. 
Round One — The Business Manager. 

The editor’s a clam-like grouch, 

Shut up within a shell, 

Who tries his best to look owl-wise 
And play the learned swell. 

He barks and growls when spoken to, 

Or grunts uncivil words, 

And of the paper’s working-force 
He thinks he is two-thirds. 


NOTE — A part of the matter appearing in this chapter was used by me 
in a paper read before a meeting of the Arkansas Press Association at Hot 
Springs, but as nearly all of the audience left while I was reading it, I may 
be pardoned for repeating it to the large number of people who will read 
this book. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


No autocratic potentate 
Is half so domineering. 

As he is with the office crew, 

At whom he’s always sneering. 

He is so awfully afraid 
He will be influenced, 

That he leans back the other way 
When help should be dispensed. 

When he might give a friendly boost 
To some one ’round the block, 

It’s ten to one that he will scrawl 
A screed that is a knock. 

The editor would feel right cheap 
If he knew what folks said 

About the rotten stuff he writes 
And has the printer lead. 

Of course, the business office knows 
He’s merely ornamental; 

That if he helps the paper grow. 

Its really accidental. 

Round Two — The Editor. 

Think of a man without a soul. 

As solemn as the tomb, 

And you can see the sordid bird 
Who runs the counting-room. 

He thinks a dry goods bargain ad. 
More readable than news; 

He values what the ad. men write 
Above our weighty views. 

He never asks, is this thing right, 

But simply will it pay? 

He never had a noble thought. 

For he’s not built that way. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


77 


Devoid of all fixed principles, 

He must a conscience lack; 

And sacrificing all to gain. 

His deeds are mostly black. 

The brains department much regrets 
That money must be had, 

But it would differentiate 
Between the good and bad. 

I cannot love a stingy man, 

Or money-grabbing shark; 

I hate a man whose thoughts revolve 
Around the dollar mark. 

The business manager is commonly supposed to be a cold- 
blooded, soulless, mercenary wretch, whose only use is to pull 
“filthy lucre” into the office, and he would not be tolerated by 
the nabobs of the tripod at all, if they could possibly do without 
the aforesaid “root of all evil,” which is such a necessary where- 
withall to grease the wheels of the machinery of the printery. On 
the other hand, the editor is represented as an angel who sits up 
nights to write moral essays. All the modern “yellow” journals 
are supposed to have been instigated by unprincipled business 
managers. 

There are two sides to this momentous question. I am 
willing to admit that the editor is the “wise acre,” but often the 
business manager can feel the public pulse much more accurately 
than can the editor, who deals more in theoretical things. The 
business manager is constantly circulating among, and associating 
with, the people, in his efforts to develop business. He hears 
almost every kick and suggestion from all the thousands of peo- 
ple who know better how to run a newspaper than those in charge 
of it. He usually hears immediately, directly or through the cir- 
culation man, when Mr. A. gets huffy and stops his paper be- 
cause of such-and-such an opinion expressed in it, and when Mr. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


B. gets up on his dignity, and discontinues his advertisements on 
account of the paper’s policy in advocating or fighting so-and-so. 
And, if all the kickers, voluntary contributors, reformers, schem- 
ers, would-be assistant editors, sports who want the latest base- 
ball score, cranks who have come to kill the editor, and other 
nuisances who torment newspaper offices, were permitted by the 
business manager to get up to the editorial rooms, the editors 
would never find time to write all of the weighty leaders which 
seem to be necessary to mold public opinion and regulate the 
universe. 

The business office must be polite, attentive and considerate 
to these and all other callers, and while the business manager is 
exercising his wits and using up his little stock of grey matter, 
the editor generally gets the credit for everything, good and bad. 
As a rule, the uninitiated thinks of no one connected with the 
shop except the editor. To him he addresses his letter containing 
a fifty-cent money order, payable to him, and calls for the self- 
same editor in person whenever he wants to insert an advertise- 
ment. The pretty girls send bouquets and the bride’s wedding 
cake to him, and he is generally supposed to be the “whole cheese.” 
But, as I have already suggested, it is the business manager who 
has the most trouble, and who realizes to the fullest extent the 
amount of labor necessary to get out a paper, to say nothing about 
the financial part of it. Then, when Saturday night rolls around, 
and the “ghost” is expected to walk, it is that which tries men’s 
souls, makes them greyheaded and wrinkles their foreheads. 

A subscriber called at the office one day and ordered his 
paper discontinued. When asked why he did so, he said, “Oh, 
your advertising solicitor is too exceedingly industrious; there is 
no news in the paper.” That was a compliment to the business 
office, but a reflection on the editor; and both suffered because, 
in this man’s opinion, the news and advertising columns were not 
better balanced. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


79 


(Dedicated to J. N. and Fred Heiskell.) 

I am the man who tells the world 
The town is on the map, 

And jolts the many jealous burgs 
With now and then a rap. 

’Tis I propose the splendid schemes 
That stir a sluggish town; 

’Tis I who pull off all the stunts 
That bring the place renown. 

I could have made a league of peace, 

If I had had my way; 

And all this English-Irish row 
Have settled in a day. 

I tell the President just how 
To run the government, 

And how the taxes that we need 
Could best be raised and spent. 

I am the man who writes the dope 
That sways the universe; 

I am the man who has to deal 
With all the folks perverse. 

The epigrams that Shakespeare wrote 
Do not compare with mine, 

And in satire I surely can 
Old Juvenal outshine. 

I load my gun rhetorical 
With ammunition rare^ 

And fire point-blank at everything 
That pops up anywhere. 

Sometimes I ring the big bull’s-eye, 

And then I draw applause; 

’Though oftener I miss the mark, 

To wonder what’s the cause. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


But ’though my bead’s drawn on a star 
Which will refuse to fall, 

Tis better to have fired amiss 
Than never fired at all. 

And who am I with words so spry, 
Who lacks competitor? 

O, I am It, I must admit, 

The paper’s Editor. 






% 


CHAPTER X. 


EARLY EXPERIENCES AS A REPORTER— KNOCKED OUT 
BY A TOUGH ASSIGNMENT. 

T HAD served several months in the business office, in various 
capacities, when I was advanced to the position of book- 
keeper and cashier. My salary had been increased by easy stages, 
but never too rapidly to suit me, until finally my weekly stipend 
assumed respectable proportions, and I found myself in posses- 
sion of an income which in my younger days I would have con- 
sidered immense. 

However, I became weary of the humdrum of my work in 
poring over ledgers, cash books and journals, adding up columns 
of figures, rendering dry accounts, monthly statements and mak- 
ing out trial balances. The insane desire to get into the editorial 
department which had taken possession of me years before broke 
out in a new place and interfered with my peace of mind. I 
believed that there was the place to climb the newspaper ladder, 
and, strange to say, I continued to feel that slumbering within me 
there was talent for journalism and literature, which could be 
better cultivated in the other branch of the work. 

I was finally gratified by being given a trial in the editorial 
department. I quit the business office one morning, and in the 
afternoon of the same day the City Editor took me out to make 
the rounds of the city, county and State offices, the courts, hotels 
and railroad offices. 

No assignment book was kept and there were no re-write men, 
as is now the case in up-to-date reportorial rooms. Where the 
Gazette at present has about ten reporters, one was then expected 
to “clean up the streets,” and to cover the entire city for news. 
He must get acquainted and be busy. In other words, he had to 
“dig.” I was to report everything in sight, from a dog fight to a 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


State convention, write personals, social items, run to fires, and 
correct market reports. 

It wasn’t as easy as I had imagined. I sweat blood profusely 
and was worn out the first week before I got up each day as 
much copy as would fill four or five columns, and sometimes was 
kept on the go so much that I did not have time to eat or sleep. 
It did not take long to satisfy me that I had undetaken real work 
— that I had a job, instead of a position. I found it very dis- 
agreeable and also difficult at times to obtain some kinds of 
information. 

On the second day of my service as a reporter, a doctor 
pounced down on me like a thousand o’ brick for writing what 
he said was too much about something, and a day or two after- 
ward I had a round with the police sergeant because I wanted to 
dig deeper into the mysteries of the police court docket than he 
thought I should do and asked too many questions to suit him 
about fictitious names appearing there. 

I will mention an early experience or two in detail, although 
the remembrance of them is somewhat humiliating. 

The first assignment in the form of a public meeting which 
I tackled as a reporter was the City Council. It was also the 
first time that I was ever present at a Council meeting, and I got 
“rattled,” as the saying is. An honest confession is said to be 
good for the soul, and I will ’fess up as to what a verdant reporter 
I was. I started in to make notes of everything that transpired, 
but, although Little Rock aldermen are considered slow, except 
when they take a notion to railroad a franchise ordinance through, 
the business was dispatched with such rapidity that I was soon 
left far behind the proceedings; and the truth of the matter is 
that I got very little about the session. In my confusion, I did 
not know what to use and what to discard, and, as I was conscious 
that it was necessary to make haste if I got my report ready in 
time for the paper’s use, I was in a devil of a pickle. What made 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


83 


matters worse, instead of using a note book, which I had in my 
pocket all the time, I made notes, partly in shorthand and partly 
in long hand, on some loose sheets which I found lying on the re- 
porters’ table. I neglected to number the pages, got them mixed 
up, and the result was that I could not make heads or tails of the 
stuff. A reporter for another paper sat opposite to me, and the 
city attorney and an alderman who occupied seats near my right, 
“eyed” me continually. Self-consciousness made me fancy that 
they had sized me up for a greenhorn. 

After the meeting adjourned, I went to the city clerk to re- 
quest him to permit me to examine an ordinance which had been 
enacted during the meeting, but he made some excuse, and as it 
was important that I learn as much about it as possible, that gave 
me another set-back. 

I made up my mind before leaving that miserable council 
chamber, in which so many jobs are said to have been put up to 
impose upon the dear public, that if I survived the consequence 
of that report, I would never attempt such work again. But my 
faint heart was revived, and I successfully reported subsequent 
sittings. 

With the assistance of the City Editor, I scratched and patched 
up the report, and it was sent to the printers. I was afraid of 
having made mistakes, and confidently expected the mayor and 
members of the council to mob me in the morning, or to jerk me 
up before the next meeting, perhaps to send me to jail. To my 
surprise, I was told that my report showed up all right, and the 
men on the afternoon paper copied it, except as to the headlines, 
verbatim et literatim, exactly as the same paper frequently ap- 
propriates news from the Gazette to this good day. 

I put in some time on routine reporting, and there seemed to 
be no particular objections to my work, although occasionally my 
copy was blue-penciled. 

I was so proud of what I had written that I cut out every 


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line of it that appeared in print and pasted the items in a scrap 
book. I took great pride then in reading over what I had written. 
It was soothing to my soul, but I have since destroyed, with much 
contempt, that record of my juvenile efforts. 

As a reporter I enjoyed many courtesies and privileges that 
were not accorded to“common people.” Really, a reporter in 
those days, was a big man, petted and flattered almost to death 
and invited to almost everything, from the policemen’s ball to the 
“dead swell” events. 

It was in the fall of 1888 that I met my Waterloo. A big Re- 
publican ratification meeting and a torch-light procession were 
scheduled to be given in honor of Harrison and Morton’s election, 
and I was assigned to report the events. I was instructed to 
make a synopsis of the speeches which the jubilant Republicans 
would make, as well as to describe the affairs generally. The 
celebration was pulled off according to schedule, and, oh, what a 
night! I reviewed the parade, which contained some 500 torch- 
bearers, composed largely of negroes, but including many white 
boys. Some blew tin-horns, others fired huge rockets; transpar- 
encies, flags and banners were displayed and waved. A brass 
band and a drum corps furnished the wildest kind of music. 
Following the brass band was a coffin, drawn by two spans of 
mules, led by negroes in red shirts, with inscriptions on their 
backs which read, “Poor Old Grover’s Dead — Remains of Free 
Trade.” Then came the speakers and other distinguished guests, 
in carriages. 

I arrived at the hall of the House of Representatives in the 
State House, where the speaking was to take place, before the 
return of the procession, and took a seat at the reporters’ table. 
In a few minutes the hall was filled, principally with colored 
people, and shortly afterward was crowded to its utmost capacity. 
The negroes piled in around the speaker’s stand, bringing with 
them their horns and whistles. The noise made by the blasts of 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


85 


these devilish instruments and the voices of the jubilant radicals 
made a deafening din, while the heat of the hall was suffocating, 
and the smell of perspiration sickening in the extreme. 

The people could not be kept quiet while the speech-making 
was in progress. Poor little ME was buried among the writhing 
mass of turbulent and loud-smelling negroes. Nobody who has 
not had the experience of being in a mixed crowd of whites and 
blacks under like circumstances, in a warm climate, could form 
any conception of the horribleness of the occasion. It was about 
as near pandemoniiMi as I ever expect to see. 

I got so badly confused that it was impossible for me to 
make an intelligent report of the affair. I became sick at the 
stomach and my head throbbed and ached. Being worked up to 
a fever pitch through disappointment, terribly disgusted and 
angered at being hooted at as the “kid reporter of that lying Demo- 
cratic sheet, the Gazette,” I shook as if I had the ague. 

The only other experience which ever unnerved me so com- 
pletely was the first time I attempted to address an audience. 

In dismay, I dispatchd a note to the City Editor, asking 
him to send some one else to cover the story, and I wormed my 
way out of the disgusting crowd, to go to my room, as sick as a 
poisoned pup. 

The experience decided me in the opinion that I was not 
“cut out” for that kind of work; that the god of news did not 
hover over me. The result was that in a day or two I took back 
my old place in the business department, and turned my back for 
the time being on that alleged brainery, the editorial room. 

I had yearned for a long time to try my hand at startling 
the natives with my reportorial efforts, but I wasn’t a news hound 
for long, thank goodness; and since then I have always sym- 
pathized with those poor devils who follow the news-chasing call- 
ing. I had intimated to the management on divers and sundry 
occasions that I could increase the circulation thousands of copies 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


by being allowed to tell the dear people, in my supposed inimitable 
style, what had happened, but little attention was paid at first 
to my hankerings. I now understand that the editors were better 
judges of reportorial timber than I was, and I find that the 
paper continues to struggle along without my valuable services 
in that department. 

Had it not been for the sympathetic encouragement which my 
sweetheart gave me at this time, my brief experience as a re- 
porter might have resulted as a knockout blow. She became a 
sort of guardian-angel to me, and, while I may not have been 
honest enough to confess to her the exact extent of my failures, 
she minimized my weakness and assisted in holding up my hands. 
She awakened my fancy, colored all my dreams, and inspired me 
with renewed hope and strength to continue the battle along 
other lines. 

The knocks which I received in the editorial department did 
me good, and I do not in any way regret that I had the experience, 
although I did not prove to have much of “a nose for news.” 



Laid Out by a Tough Reportorial Assignment. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE “NOSE FOR NEWS,” AND SOME MEMORIES CON- 


NECTED WITH THE REPORTERS. 


“O, Nose , I am as proud of thee 
As any mountain of its snows; 


I gaze on thee and feel that pride 
A Roman knows” 


S TO the “Nose for News,” much has been said and written 



1 x about that imaginary reportorial sixth sense or newspaper in- 
stinct, as if the commodity known as news must be sniffed or 
scented by an extraordinary kind of proboscis, like the blood- 
hound follows a trail and runs down its prey, instead of being, 
in a natural way, heard with the ears and seen through the eyes 
of the ordinary man of common-sense. 

While some, of course, are better qualified by temperament, 
inclination, education and habits of observation than others to 
follow the gentle art of newsgathering, I believe little in the 
heaven-born-newspaper-man theory. What may be called natural 
aptitude is capable of being developed. The student must learn 
to recognize a piece of news when he meets it, and be able to 
describe what he sees in newspaper language. Almost anybody 
of average intelligence may learn to do this, if he wants to do so. 
I didn’t want to do it, I found. 

The Gazette has had connected with it during my term of 
service many smart, alert men as reporters, many of whom, under 
more fortuitous circumstances, in a broader field, would have 
become famous. The mention of the names of these old-timers 
may not mean anything to the average reader of these pages, 
but the following are some who endeared themselves to me: 

George R. Brown, who confined his writing principally to 
boosting Little Rock and the Board of Trade members, but who 


88 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


never failed to get what he wanted when he went after it while he 
was in the newspaper harness; the critical Harry Ricketts; the 
irrepressible Charlie George, who, when he was short on actual 
news, was always prepared to manufacture a yard or two out of 
the whole cloth of his fertile imagination, and would think noth- 
ing of hatching out a half dozen “grape-vine” specials at a sitting. 

Then there was that princely fellow, Richard H. Farquhar, 
whose pencil became palzied when his body was stricken with 
paralysis; the modest, kind-hearted Dickison Brugman, dean of 
Little Rock journalists, who could come as near extracting the 
meat out of a good story, or making for the reader an entertaining 
story out of nothing, as any man on earth. 

Before this time, there was the brainy Robert J. Brown, since 
retired from the editorial department, who would attempt any 
kind of writing, from humor to tragedy, and who has started 
more newspapers than any other man in the State — the man who 
when only 21 years of age, secured for the Gazette the first author- 
ized interview with Grover Cleveland, after his first nomination 
for president; saw and reported eleven official hangings in less 
than two years; went down in the caissons under the river of the 
old free bridge at Little Rock, when they were being constructed; 
and who wrote with a lead pencil in one day twelve columns of 
news on a certain occasion. 

A little later came W. M. Kavanaugh, whose fingers, after 
he left the newspaper, ever itched to write, but whose constituents 
insisted on his going into politics and banking; to be followed by 
that little human dynamo, George W. Gunder, who wrote poetry, 
as well as news-stories, but deserted Arkansas to go to Indiana 
and get rich. 

At about the same time, there came the talented Fletcher 
Roleson, who basely went back on the newspaper for the law; 
the old reliable, argus-eyed Farrelly Kimball, who was stricken 
with consumption, to the regret of thousands of admirers; en- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


89 


ergetic little Ed. Newton; the smiling Bob Blakeney; the hard- 
working Guy Bilheimer. 

In more modern times, appeared Donald Biggs, who was “a 
chiel amang ye takin’ notes;” Fletcher Chenault, an all-round 
newspaper man of ability; Charlie Davis, who is becoming famous 
as a poet, as well as a newsman; Joe Wirges, who never gets left 
when there’s anything doing; Henry Loesch, the great sporting 
editor; and “Bishop” Thomas A. Wright, one of the ablest dra- 
matic critics in the country. 



A Nose for News. 


All of these were metaphorically given noses for news. But 
there was a certain reporter attached to the paper for many years 
who had the ability to gather news — took to it like a duck to 
water — and who also had a nose connected with his facial anatomy 
which could most appropriately be called a nose for news. His 
was the real thing in that line. It was something that could not 
be overlooked, and he was proud of that nose, too. Anybody 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


who saw him, whether they knew his occupation or not, would 
naturally decide at once that his ought to be a nose for news, if it 
wasn’t, and among his associates and acquaintances it was a pro- 
verbial saying that he enjoyed that famous possession. 

THE NOSE FOR NEWS. 

True poets of majestic rhyme 

Must be descended from the muse, 

But journalistic heights you climb 
With simply this: A Nose for News; 

So he who pines to join the press, 

A news proboscis must possess. 

To those unable to control 

Ambitious aims along this line, 

I’d whisper wisely in the ear: 

Count not your talents while you pine. 

Consult the editorial crews 
And let them judge your nose for news. 

There was a brilliant reporter, named Harry Watkins, who 
died in 1895, and whose remains I sorrowfully helped to carry 
to his last earthly resting place and lower into the grave. He was 
a good-hearted, clever fellow, delicate in constitution and small of 
stature. I remember having heard him tell a joke on himself. 
He was given an assignment on one occasion to go to Camden, 
to report a public gathering. He repaired to a hotel, and, after 
going to his room, rang for some ice water. The boy who brought 
the pitcher of water, seeing him for the first time, gave a start and 
exclaimed, “Oh, boss, you scared me; please take that false face 
off.” 

Poor Harry! He was no Adonis, and not much of a saint, but 
he went into the next world with a smile on his face. To a friend 
who called on him a short time before he died, he said: “Well, 
I’m about gone; in a little while I shall ride in a procession, and 
I will be at the head of it for once.” 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


91 


It was at the house of Harry’s mother that I roomed after 
I left my first boarding-house, and it was there that I lay during 
the only serious illness that I have ever suffered. Mrs. Watkins 
nursed me like a mother, and it was during that illness that I had 
a practical lesson to the effect that the “milk of human kindness” 
remains uncurdled in many breasts. Not only did my landlady 
nurse me w r hen I was helpless, but my lady friends converted the 
rooms of myself and roommate into a bow r er of roses, and I was 
the recipient of more sweetmeats than six invalids could make 
away with, to say nothing of words of comfort and condolence. 
The office was as good, in sending me my salary every Saturday, 
the same as wdien I was working. 

I remember on one night in 1901, reporter Guy Bilheimer 
was the only occupant of the editorial room, except the telegraph 
operator. He wrote heads for Associated Press dispatches with 
one hand, local items with the other, and talked over the ’phone to 
correspondents all at one and the same time. 

“Gee, whiz,” said he, about 11 o’clock, “if a fire 
should break out, how would I cover it? And there’s that meet- 
ing at the Presbyterian Church, a wedding, a burglary, and the 
Lord knows what else, to w 7 rite up. My, but ain’t I in it? But 
they can’t down me. Unless hell breaks loose, I’ll get the paper 
out, all right.” And he did. 


CHAPTER XII. 

REPORTING A SPEAKING TOUR.— SERVING A NEW BOSS. 


TAURING ray many years of service with a newspaper, I have 
had the good fortune to meet and receive courtesies at the 
hands of a great many public men. The Gazette office, on Center 
street, was practically surrounded by the city, county, State and 
United States administrative offices. The State House was one- 
half block north of the newspaper office, the Post Office and Cus- 
toms House next door on the South, with only a grass plot inter- 
vening; the City Hall a block away on the east; and the County 
Court House one block distant to the west. Most of the various 
officials were frequent visitors at the office. The two leading 
hotels, at one or the other of which nearly all visiting magnates 
stopped, or whose lobbies they frequented, were nearby. 

While nearly all of my newspaper life has been spent in the 
business office before and since I tried to be a regular reporter, 
I have frequently had to fill in a gap when a man was short, or 
for other reasons have incidentally covered in an humble way 
numerous light reportorial assignments. So that I may say that 
I have had plenty of opportunities to keep my hand in. I could 
recite numerous experiences in this line, but, in order that I may 
not string these reminiscences over too much valuable white paper, 
I shall only refer to those which, for some personal reason, or by 
chance, bob up first or most opportunely in my memory. No 
great beats are to be looked for, however, as I cannot boast of 
making any. 

In the summer of 1892, an agreeable commission as a special 
field correspondent was given me, which really afforded me a fine 
outing. This was to follow the candidates for governor and report 
the campaign. W. M. Fishback was the Democratic candidate; 
W. G. Whipple was the nominee of the Republicans, and J. P. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


93 


Carnahan was in the race as the representative of the Greenback 
party. The latter party, though short-lived, was very strong in 
Arkansas at that time. 

The campaign opened up at Searcy in White County, with 
a joint debate between Fishback and Carnahan. (Whipple did not 
enter the spouting contest until two weeks later). The chairman 
of the Democratic State Central Committee was present to start 
off the fireworks. He was Judge Joseph W. House, a director 
in my company, and one of the drollest men in the world. He 
enjoyed a joke, and thought I was a good subject to play one on. 
The itinerary took in the mountain towns of the northern part of 
the State. Most of the points were off the railroads, and many 
moonshiners and other outlaws were supposed to dwell up there. 
When the time came for the party to leave Searcy, Judge House 
walked up to me, bade me good-bye, and, in the most solemn 
manner, said he was sorry, but he never again expected to see me 
alive; that it was too bad that the publishers of my paper had 
sent a young boy like me out on such a hazardous trip, as he 
feared the moonshiners who infested the hills would be sure to 
take me for a revenue officer and put a bullet through me. 

I had heard that such occurrences did take place in the part 
of the country to which we were going, and as I did not know 
the Judge well enough to think he was joking, I believed the trip 
might be a little risky, and so I went and bought a pistol, which 
I carried conveniently in my hip pocket. It was a 32-calibre 
Smith & Wesson, and A. L. Smith, a well-known alderman of 
Little Rock, who was a member of the party, joked me consid- 
erably about carrying a toy pop-gun like that to fight desperate 
characters with. And, when I used the revolver in firing several 
shots at a big moccasin snake that was stretched out on the edge 
of a creek, and it, with lifted head and darting fangs seemed to 
defy and mock my poor markmanship, Smith’s amusement knew 
no bounds. 


94 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


Colonel Fishback, Smith and I, together with the driver, rode 
in a two-seated conveyance through the mountains daily for 
more than three weeks, but I never found occasion to use my 
firearm further. Professor Carnahan followed us in a single rig. 

It was a very enjoyable trip, and I entertain many interest- 
ing memories of it. Mr. Smith proved to be a good mixer among 
the people. His knack of getting along with strangers, his per- 
sistency in obtaining something to eat for the party in rural 
neighborhoods where there were no hotels or public eating 
houses, and his usefulness in other respects, made him a desirable 
traveling companion. He was also a good singer, and the hours 
consumed in driving between appointments were often pleasantly 
whiled away in song, led by him. Fishback also liked to sing. 
One day when all were fatigued after riding for six or eight 
hours, the Colonel started up the good old hymn, the first line of 
which runs, “How tedious and tasteless the hours,” and that hymn 
was sung hundreds of times. The roads in places were exceedingly 
rough, and our driver seemed to strike all the rocks and stumps 
in sight with great precision and regularity. After a lull in con- 
versation, especially when a shake-up occurred, the song would be 
resorted to, Colonel Fishback always emphasizing the lines, 
“Sweet prospects, sweet birds and sweet flowers, have all lost 
their sweetness for me.” 

Governor Fishback was a dignified, courteous, scholarly 
man, of the old school, but he was not a fierce campaigner. He 
made practically the same speech at every place, varying little 
more than the introduction and peroration or the poetical quo- 
tation which he delighted to use. He devoted his attention partic- 
ularly to the Republican high protective tariff, which was a lead- 
ing issue at that time, and one of his pet sayings in regard to it, 
which always brought down the house, was that it was, “turning 
out millionaires at one end and paupers at the other.” Smith 
and I laughed heartily about the way in which he figuratively 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


95 


turned out these bloated millionaires and pitiful paupers every 
time he made a speech. 

His opponents attacked him bitterly, but he showed no re- 
sentment and went on with his set speech, without paying much 
attention to them. Of course, it was a good speech. One day I 
tried to prod him up to the point of showing fight, but there 
was nothing doing. “Young man,” said he, “never allow yourself 
to be put on the defensive or to be made angry in public debate.” 
He w r on out with a large plurality. 

Governor Fishback’s voice was weak, and in order to keep 
his throat clear, he was in the habit of using Jamaica ginger in 
his drinking water. He swallowed large quantities of this bev- 
erage while speaking, and several times at his request I obtained 
new supplies of the stuff for him. 

Prof. Carnahan was a good man, but he was apparently sat- 
urated with the foolish idea that he was a great commoner or a 
Cincinnatus, w T hose duty it was to save the poor people, who were 
being ground into the earth under the iron heels of monopolists 
and aristocrats ; which continues to be a popular campaign slogan. 
He was dressed like a farmer, entirely the opposite in everything 
from the dignified Fishback, who wore a Prince Albert coat and 
a silk hat. 

Carnahan was poor, without a campaign fund, or was ex- 
tremely penurious. In traveling over the country roads, on two 
occasions when a stream of water was reached, he washed with 
his own hands his discarded soiled shirts and dried them while 
driving through the woods by hanging them out on the side of 
the conveyance. One of these shirts was black and, flying from 
the side of the buggy, it might have been taken for a war flag, a 
sign of distress, of the plague, or a pirate’s signal. 

We were treated with great respect in every town we visited, 
and by invitation the newspaper man usually participated in every 
courtesy shown to the candidates. The entertainment offered, 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


and the duties which I had to discharge to the paper in sending 
reports from the front, together with handling such subscriptions 
as I could pick up — I was urged not to forget the latter — kept me 
as busy as a cranberry merchant. 

At one place I had to bribe a telegraph operator to wire in 
my dispatch, because it was after six o’clock in the afternoon, and 
then had to read every word of it to him as he telegraphed it, for 
the reason that he did not have intelligence enough to read it, 
and had never handled a news special before. 

I considered that I did wonders on this trip by bringing back 
with me to the office all the expense money with which I had 
been provided and more besides, my expenditures and the over- 
plus having been collected in subscriptions to the paper. 

Permit a slight digression here, to allow me to refer to a mat- 
ter on which my mind delights to dwell. I shall confess that I 
was very much in love at this period. The friendly association 
with a certain fair one which had extended over several years 
after I chanced to meet her while she was a visitor at my first 
boarding house, had ripened into a stronger feeling. En route 
home from the speaking tour which I have described, our party 
was met in the afternoon about two miles before we reached 
Batesville by a committee, which brought us our mail and es- 
corted us to the town hall. A member of the committee named 
Arthur Nell brought me an interesting letter from my sweet- 
heart. We tarried for a while in the woods to rest and chat, and 
I got out of the conveyance and sat on a log under a tree by the 
roadside, to reply to my letter with a note, to be mailed at the 
nearest post office. 

The country thereabouts is mountainous and beautiful. The 
sun in all its majesty was descending behind the everlasting hills 
in the distance, the sweet words contained in the missive received, 
and the reverberation ringing in my ears of the “Sweet prospects. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 97 

sweet birds and sweet flowers” of the song we had been singing, 
combined to thrill my soul with ecstacy. 

Up to this time I belonged heart and soul to the Gazette, but 
from now on I was to serve another mistress also, although it has 
been said that a man cannot serve two mistresses, any more than 
he can serve two masters. 

Pardon the insertion in such a prosaic history of the follow- 
ing rude evidence of the romantic passion which then controlled 
me: 

TO MY LOVE. 

My fancy sees her image in the brook — 

Her face in every flower; all day long 
I hear the echo of a voice in song 
r From sweetest lips that mortal man e’er took 

Soft kisses from; and her blue eyes, with look 
Of love, I ever see among the throng 
As I contend each day with right and wrong, 

And turn another page in Life’s strange book; 

Wherein I missed the melodies of earth, 

Most of its fairest beauties failed to see, 

And wasted all the years passed since my birth 
Until by chance I found the master key 
To heart’s delight and Nature’s deeper worth 
Through God’s great gift of precious love to me. 

One of the most amusing experiences I ever had occurred 
when accompanying, as a reporter, a Board of Trade Excursion 
through Eastern Arkansas. With the party was Harry H. Myers, 
lawyer, ex-Republican candidate for governor, and an all-round 
good fellow, with a keen sense of humor, who was capable of 
making a monkey of himself to add to the gaiety of a crowd. He 
had announced that when we reached a certain little town, where 
in his youth he had worked in the humble capacity of a railroad 
telegraph operator, he was expected to meet all his old boyhood 
acquaintances, who had planned to give him a big reception, and 
he had promised to make them a speech. He had prepared for 


98 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


the occasion a regular oration, some of the strong parts of which 
he rehearsed to us en route. 

Well, when the train stopped, it was raining to beat the band, 
there was no reception committee to meet the returned conquer- 
ing hero and favorite son, neither were there any banners or 
music; in fact, there was not a soul around, and the little depot 
where Harry had once pounded the telegraph keys was locked up 
tight. 

Harry turned white in the face, and the crowd yelled, but, not 
to be outdone, he stepped on the platform, and with expanded 
chest and the profoundest of bows, he proceeded in clarion tones 
to declaim his oration to the water-soaked, desert air, continually 
bowing to the right and left, gesticulating and emphasizing cer- 
tain references to his imaginary dear old pals of the years agone, 
thanking them for their magnificent and very cordial reception 
and hearty greetings, which made the occasion the proudest hour 
of his life, etc. Being a real actor, as well as an orator, he made 
the incident screechingly funny. With “good-byes, and God bless 
you, old friends,” to the absent ones, the train pulled out. 

Mr. Myers is a great joker. Everybody knows him as “Gov- 
ernor Myers,” although he never served as a governor. He ex- 
plained this on one occasion at Dallas, Texas, to a correspondent 
of the Boston The correspondent met him at an inter- 

state meeting of newspaper men, which “Governor” Myers at- 
tended in an effort to induce it to hold its next annual meeting 
at Hot Springs, where he then lived and served as superintend- 
ent of the Government Reservation. 

The Boston newspaper man was anxious to meet “Governor” 
Myers, but was avoided by the latter, until finally cornered. 

“Governor,” said the correspondent, “you are not the pres- 
ent chief magistrate of Arkansas, are you?” 

“No,” replied Myers. 

“And you seem too young to be an ex-governor?” 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


99 


“I am neither,” said Myers. 

“But, everybody calls you ‘Governor.’ ” 

“Well, I’ll tell you, in confidence, how I got that title,” said 
Myers, with a straight face; “I ran for Governor of my State on 
the Republican ticket 28 times, without getting the office. After 
sending a committee to negotiate with me, the Legislature, in a 
joint session of both houses, enacted a law conferring the title 
upon me, provided I wouldn’t run again, but disfranchising me 
from ever holding the office. You understand, it was a Demo- 
cratic Legislature.” 

“Is that a fact?” enquired the correspondent. 

“Upon my honor,” declared the “Governor,” “but the Legis- 
lature had precedent for that, you know; Marcus Claudius Tacitus, 
or some other noble Roman, was made Senator for life, and after- 
ward Emperor by the Roman Senate.” 

“That’s a good story,” said Mr. W. 

“But don’t print it,” insisted Myers. “I am a modest man, 
and don’t like to get in print.” 

The journalist finally got Mr. Myers permission to print the 
story, and it forthwith appeared in the Boston newspaper. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“SQUIRREL-HEAD” EDITORS AND “OLD LEAD.”— FIERY 
ORATORY IN A FREEZING TEMPERATURE. 

YAN JANUARY 29, 1902, which is impressed on my memory as 
^ the date of a great sleet storm which swept over Arkansas and 
caused millions of dollars worth of property damage, I went to 
Hot Springs, to report a joint debate between Governor Jeff Davis, 
who was a candidate for re-election, and his opponent, E. W. 
Rector. 

Arkansas political campaigns are usually exciting, and Davis 
had declared that he would make this one as hot as a going cook- 
ing stove. 

The speaking took place at an auditorium called the “Opera 
House.” The weather was bitterly cold, and there was no heat in 
the building. I sat in one of the wings of the stage, behind the 
scenery, and was compelled to wear my overcoat, hat, rubber over- 
shoes and a muffler to keep from freezing, which was hardly to 
be expected in a temperate climate like that of Arkansas. The 
speaking, however, was red-hot. It was a case of fiery oratory 
mixed with a freezing temperature. 

During the Arkansas political campaigns of 1903-4, in the 
month of August, I w T as sent to Lake Village to report a supposed 
sensational debate between Governor Davis and Attorney-General 
George W. Murphy. Colonel Murphy had been bitter in his de- 
nunciation of Governor Davis. The latter was equally harsh in 
his criticism of the former; and as both had accepted invitations 
to speak at a celebration to be given at that place, a lively time 
was expected. 

Davis suddenly cancelled his appointment, after Murphy had 
gone to Lake Village, which caused Murphy in a speech to de- 
nounce him as a coward and a scoundrel. I never heard such an 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


101 


harangue before or since. Murphy’s style was caustic, cutting 
and dramatic. In this instance he employed verbal pitchforks, 
daggers and cannon. His vituperation was so terrific as to almost 
frighten the hearer. 

There were three newspaper men in the party, and, being 
disappointed because a part of the sport was spoiled by the non- 
appearance of the star performer, we were anxious to get back to 
Little Rock as early as possible. Murphy was in the same frame 
of mind. But there was no train returning until the next morn- 
ing, so we chartered a hand-car to carry us to Montrose, the junc- 
tion of the Iron Mountain with the Lake Village branch, twenty 
miles distant, where we expected to catch a train at 10 o’clock 



A Genuine Arkansas Squirrel-Head Editor. 

bound for Little Rock. Taking turn about at propelling the 
hand-car, we reached the junction on time, after a tedious journey, 
but our train proved to be four hours late. Colonel Murphy be- 
came seriously ill, due to the heat and over-exertion, and it was 
necessary to give him some kind of a bed. There was no place 
to spend the time, except under the stars, as the little depot and 
everything else in the village were tightly closed. There was a 


102 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


circular saw, about ten feet in diameter, in a wooden frame on 
the depot platform. The big saw was placed flat down on the 
platform, and taking off our coats, we gave them to Murphy for 
bed clothes and pillow. He lay down on the saw and slept 
soundly. The Colonel had the reputation of being willing to 
fight a circular saw, but this was probably his first experience 
in using such a tool for a folding-bed. 

One of the hardest propositions the newspapers every en- 
countered was the Governor Jeff Davis referred to. The Gazette, 
following its custom to take no part in a contest between Demo- 
crats for an office, had neither opposed nor advocated his candi- 
dacy in 1899; but that gentleman found that he could not control 
the paper, it had criticised his official acts, and, therefore he 
classed it with those papers which actually opposed him. He 
would buy space for advertising matter in regard to his campaign, 
and then in his speeches jump on the paper for charging him 
for publishing the ads. When cards of other candidates ap- 
peared, although they were marked “advertisement,” he would 
accuse the Gazette of selling out to them. 

As the company’s manager, I had some dealings with him, 
and I must say that I never dealt with a more arbitrary customer. 
He disliked everybody connected with the Gazette. In a speech 
at one of his appointments he told the people he should like to 
exhibit me as a curiosity. Hatred does not enter my make-up, but 
I had such a dislike for him that when my commission as a notary 
public expired, during his term, I would not ask for its renewal. 

Most candidates for public office are disposed to toady to the 
newspapers; at least, they endeavor to treat the publisher court- 
eously and considerately, through a realization that newspaper 
publicity is valuable to them, if for no other reasons; but Gov- 
ernor Davis reversed this rule. He seemed to court the antag- 
onism of the newspapers, and then to seek to turn their adverse 
criticism to his advantage, in appealing to the prejudices of a 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


103 


certain element of the people by a hue and cry about a so-called 
subsidized press. 

Early in his political career he became much puffed up, and 
if a newspaper commented adversely on his acts, he immediately 
blacklisted that paper. A majority of the newspapers opposed 
him; he could not handle them, but he attempted to make capital 
out of fighting them. In his speeches to rural audiences he was 
in the habit, for political effect, of denouncing the newspapers, 
especially those of Little Rock, as corporation mouthpieces. He 
delighted in referring to their editors as “squirrel-heads,” and the 
editor of the Gazette was the grand chief of the despised rodents. 

According to his peculiar brand of logic, any journal that 
would not come out flat-footed for him was bought up by the other 
side. Sometimes he would offer matter which could not be print- 
ed even as an advertisement, because it would be libelous. He 
would then print it in circular form, and state at the bottom of 
it that the paper was so unfair that it would not print this even 
for money. 

In regard to the newspapers, he said: 

“I used to keep a pack of hounds, and among the number was 
an old blue, speckled dog, with long ears, and we called him Old 
Lead. He had a mellow, gentle voice, and when you would hear 
his bugle note on the mountain side, you could swear that a fox 
was at hand; and at the same time I had a dozen black-and-tan 
hound pups, just old enough to train, and when these puppies 
would hear Old Lead open up, they would break through the 
woods barking ‘yow, yow, yow.’ They did not smell a thing on 
earth; they only heard Old Lead bark. That is the way with 
these newspapers in Arkansas. The Gazette and Democrat emu- 
late Old Lead in this campaign; they open up, and the little 
country papers over the state break out, ‘yow, yow, yow;’ they do 
not smell a thing on earth, but they hear Old Lead bark.” Then 
he would “light in” and give the Gazette fits. Said he, “I’d 


104 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


rather carry a polecat under my arm than a copy of that lying 
sheet.” 

In likening the Gazette to Old Lead he was right in one 
respect — it always did lead in Arkansas. 



As a matter of fact, Governor Davis was a wonder on the 
political stump. His power over a country audience has prob- 
ably never been surpassed by any politician in any country. He 
was a spell-binder from away back. His powerful appeals to the 
“dear common people” to line up with him and help to “wallow 
these trust-heelers one more time” was never disregarded. His 
following was amazing, and the intensity of feeling against those 
who opposed him was also surprising. One well-intentioned 
countryman wrote to the Gazette in apparent sincerity that he be- 
lieved Jeff Davis had been persecuted worse than had Jesus 
Christ on the cross. 

Governor Davis was afterward elected to the United States 
Senate, and it will be remembered that he raised a disturbance 
there somewhat like the actions of “a bull in a china shop,” with 
his famous “cob-web” speech and other sensational utterances, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


105 


but he was not taken seriously in Washington. He made himself 
heard on all occasions, however, and he had a degree of magnetism 
which attracted attention, especially on his native heath. 

Jeff Davis vanquished all his foes, and won his cherished prize. 
Although upsetting customs old his plans to realize. 

He licked the festive “squirrel-heads” who so beset his path — 

The editors who made him great — and always braved his wrath. 

For more than thirty years a Democratic nomination in 
Arkansas has been equivalent to an election to an office. Years 
ago the custom grew up for candidates to make a formal an- 
nouncement of their candidacy through the Gazette. The notice 
stood until the nominating convention was held or the primaries 
took place. A reasonable fee was charged for this card, and a 
complimentary notice of the aspirant appeared with the first 
issue containing the advertisement. The notice was usually the 
most important part of the transaction. The paid announcement 
was worded in this fashion: 

ANNOUNCEMENT — The Gazette is authorized to announce 
Hon. Ham Smith, of Blank County, as a candidate for Governor 
of Arkansas, subject to the action of the Democratic party. 

Jeff Davis made himself notorious among the members of 
the State press by being the first aspirant for an important office 
within the Democratic party who had the colossal nerve to try 
to get a public place without paying this customary tribute to the 
newspapers. He bade defiance to a time-honored custom, but 
broke into office whether or no. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A CHANGE IN OWNERSHIP, FOLLOWED BY A PRINTERS’ 
STRIKE— PECULIARITIES OF COLONEL FROLICH. 

TYTEWSPAPERS, like statesmen and politicians, flourish for a 
1 ' time, but often grow into disfavor with their whimsical con- 
stituency. 

A feeling having developed that the Gazette did not reflect 
the true sentiment of the Democratic party of the State, and as 
the owners desired to sell the property, a new company was or- 
ganized, which in 1899 bought it. 

The new company had about 100 stockholders, composed of 
prominent men, who lived in different parts of the State, it being 
supposed that this kind of ownership would popularize the paper. 

Col. Jacob Frolich, ex-secretary of State, was selected to 
manage the paper. He asked me to stay with him. He was a good 
newspaper man, and one of the foxiest I have ever known; but 
he was not suited to the place, and the duties worried him almost 
to death. He had a peculiar way of crossing his fingers and bat- 
ting his eyes, which was especially noticeable when he was 
agitated. 

I remember one incident which caused him to bat his eyes 
considerably. Previously I had made up the pay-rolls on Sat- 
urdays, but when he took charge he undertook to pay off per- 
sonally. He continued to act as paymaster for several weeks, 
but one day, during warm weather, when he was seated at a desk 
near an open window — the office being close to the sidewalk 
line — some one reached in through the bars and abstracted a $20 
bill from the pile which he was counting and distributing into the 
pay envelopes. He let me pay off after that. 

During Colonel Frolich’s administration, a dispute arose as 
to the scale to be paid the printers, and as neither side would 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


107 


compromise, a strike ensued. The printers walked out, the fore- 
man, W. R. Barrow, locked up the office, handed me the key, and, 
with expressions of regret, he followed his men. 

The strikers swore like pirates 
They never would give in; 

“More pay or no more paper,” 

They said, with surly grin; 

And forthwith started boycotts 
In their attempt to win. 

Win, win. 

The strike was a hard blow to Frolich. He was serious and 
conscientious, but easily perturbed, and he fretted a great deal 
about it. He was afraid of mischief being done by the strikers. 
Time and time again, he would bat his eyes, and say to me, 
“Fred, please see that that there is no danger of fire and that 
the windows are all securely locked, so that no one can raise them 
from the outside. When you close the office, see that there are 
no loafers upstairs. Make them go out, if there are any. We 
don’t want anybody in the building on Sundays. Look in the 
room back of the editor’s. It is a loafer’s resort — full of papers. 
Latch the outer door going upstairs.” 

The trouble was not adjusted with the Typographical Union, 
and printers belonging to what was then known as the Printers’ 
Protective Fraternity were employed. It was a non-union office 
for several years after this, until Colonel J. N. Smithee took 
charge, when he reinstated the Union printers, and they have held 
the shop ever since. 

Every department of the Gazette is now unionized except the 
clerical force and the writers, and when the craze was recently 
started to organize newspaper writers’ unions, some of the re- 
porters on the paper, laughingly, announced that they were as 
strong as horseradish for the movement. This is the day of 
Unions. 


108 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


The Union printers called the non-union men “rats,” and 
the Gazette a “rat” office until it was again unionized. 

Another strike, confined at first to the job printing depart- 
ments, occurred in 1905. Early in the contest, a struck Union 
man deserted and went back to work. At noon he took a drink 
too much and fell by the way-side. While limp and unconscious 
he was loaded on an express wagon and driven up to the office 
at which he worked, the carriers shouting as he arrived, “Here’s 
your rat.” 

In this fight another newspaper, the Democrat, seceded from 
the Union. A paper friendly to the strikers referred to it then 
as the “Democ-Rat.” 

The strike finally assumed serious proportions. The boy- 
cott was again resorted to — not only against the paper, but also 
against all who advertised in it. Below is a notice of this unusual 
species of boycott, signed by the Central Trades Council, thus 
making the interdict include all the labor unions: 

NOTICE TO ALL UNION MEN AND FRIENDS OF 
ORGANIZED LABOR. 

The Central Trades and Labor Council of Little Rock held 
a special meeting on Sunday afternoon, January 28, 1906, at 
Labor Temple, and decided by unanimous vote to put on the 
unfair list the following firms: (Names omitted). 

Friends of organized labor are requested to withdraw their 
patronage from the above named firms until they withdraw their 
advertisements from the Arkansas Democrat, which has refused 
to concede the 8-hour day to its employes, members of L. R. 
Typographical Union No. 92. 

By order of Central Trades and Labor Council. 

The master printers belonged to an organization known as 
the Typothetae. The printers called it the “Teapot.” 

Some day the question of unionism in connection with news- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


109 


paper plants will have to be fought out. With few exceptions, 
the mechanical departments of the big newspapers of America 
are dominated by the unions. The unions are good things, and 
no one should combat the right of men to belong to them, but 
when a union says that no one except the members of that organi- 
zation shall work in your plant, it transcends its rights, and in- 
terferes with yours, as well as those of other individuals. A union 
card or certificate of membership and competency should be use- 
ful as a recommendation, but should be no more final with the 
employer than a certificate to the effect that a workman belongs to 
a certain church or secret society. The right of collective bar- 
gaining may be recognized, but the closed shop is wrong in prin- 
cipal. Composing rooms and press rooms should be open to any 
boy or girl, man or woman, who has mastered the trade, or de- 
sires to learn it, if the owner sees fit to employ and pay that one. 

Speaking of “rats,” reminds me of Tom Wright’s fabrication 
of the educated rodents which he claimed to have discovered in 
the office. He swore he had several times seen them with his own 
eyes let down a string from the top of the office rat trap and 
fish out pieces of cheese, and that one of them was in the habit of 
holding the trap door open at other times while another went in 
and brought out the bait. He said it beat anything he ever saw 
— and I guess it did, for a fact. 

Manager Frolich, whose unpleasant experiences with a labor 
union have been narrated, told me one day the interesting story of 
his first newspaper experience, which is perhaps worth repeating. 

After the war between the States, he purchased an outfit in 
Memphis and started by boat, via White river, to Searcy, Ark., 
to start a paper there. He had invested all the money he had 
in this printing outfit. One of the boxes being conveyed with 
his material and himself on the boat, contained his suit of Confed- 
erate grey artillery uniform, which was well preserved and valued 
highly by him. He guarded this box with special care, but when 


110 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


the boat was nearing his destination, while he was sitting on one 
of the cases, earnestly planning and composing an editorial an- 
nouncement for the first issue of his proposed journalistic effort, 
he was suddenly upset by a lunge of the boat. A snag had been 
struck and the boat was sinking. Before he could realize the 
loss of all his hopes, he was standing on the bank of White river, 
sans printing outfit and wardrobe, and glad to get off with his 
life. He returned to Memphis and worked as a printer until he 
had saved enough money to buy another supply of type and a 
press, when he traveled to Searcy again by the same route, and 
did establish a paper there, called the “Record.” 

Several months after the loss of his printing outfit, as de- 
scribed, the Colonel said he was walking along the levee at Vicks- 
burg, Miss., when he saw a colored man wearing a gray coat, 
which on account of some familiar trimmings, attracted his at- 
tention. On a second look he had no trouble in recognizing a part 
of the uniform which he had lost in the wreck of the boat on 
White river. 

“Where did you get that coat?” he asked the darkey. 

“I feeshed it outen White River too long ergo ter talk about, 
boss.” 

“Where are the pants and vest?” he inquired. 

“I’se dun wore ’em out long ergo,” he replied. 

The Colonel felt bad about the fate of his uniform, but ne- 
gotiated for the recovery of the wornout coat, as a relic of the 
past. 

W. E. Woodruff, Sr., the founder the Gazette, brought to 
Arkansas the printing outfit with which he started the Gazette 
at Arkansas Post in 1819 in identically the same manner as 
Frolich imported the printing equipment described. 

Colonel Frolich died in 1891, having resigned and been suc- 
ceeded as manager in 1890 by W. M. Kavanaugh. Frolich had 
been ill for some time and had undergone a serious operation. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


111 


He one day wrote me a note to the effect that the doctors had come 
and gone, with their bulge pumps, crowbars, saws, pincers, cork- 
screws, knives, gimlets and augurs — an armfull of them — and 
he did not know whether he would survive an attack with so many 
weapons. He lived only a short time afterward. 

The Gazette has had some strangely different types of men 
connected with it. Soon after the first strike alluded to, the paper 
was compelled to advertise for a foreman of its composing-room. 
A pompous man responded, coming from St. Louis. He was a 
capable foreman, who performed his duties well, but he seemed 
to lead a sort of a Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde existence, without 
seeming to want to deceive anybody, and he was an interesting 
study in human nature. He was a likable man, of ability and good 
education. He had been a minister of the gospel, and I once 
heard him preach as learned, as earnest, as eloquent and as en- 
tertaining a sermon as I ever listened to in all my life. I also 
knew him to exert a good influence in a private way, and I be- 
lieve he was sincere in his words and actions at those times; but 
he had powerful weaknesses, or was possessed by an evil genius. 
Like many other preachers, he did not always practice what he 
preached. 

After two years, this foreman left the Gazette, and estab- 
lished a weekly sheet of his own. It was conducted in such a 
manner as to reflect the contradictory character of the man. He 
could sling language as picturesque as ever was spread with ink 
on paper. The paper was on the sensational order, and, like most 
yellow journals, it soon died a natural death. 

This remarkable printer-journalist, whose name was Gould, 
printed a paragraph in his paper one week which worried my 
wife a lot, after her attention had been called to it. It stated that 
I was fast becoming as big a liar as John Ginocchio. Now this 
would not be considered a reflection on Mr. Ginocchio or on me 
by those who knew the former intimately, as Mr. G. has for 30 


112 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


years been the Little Rock correspondent of the St. Louis Globe- 
Democrat and the Memphis Commercial-Appeal, papers which 
would not retain a fabricator. The famous M. de Blowitz, Paris 
correspondent of the London Times, did not have more influence 
with the powers that be, and was not more in touch with political 
affairs in his field than Mr. G. is in Arkansas. He is on easy 
terms with all the Bryans, Roosevelts, Wilsons, Lloyd Georges, 
and Clemenceaus of Arkansas politics. 

Mr. Ginocchio incurred the displeasure of Governor Jeff 
Davis in May, 1905, while the governor was attending a meeting 
of a levee board in Memphis, by sending out some items that the 
governor would have liked suppressed. Gov. Davis and a crowd 
had repaired to a bar for some refreshments, at his invitation. 
Some one called for a gin-fizz. 

“No, you don’t,” said the governor, “that sounds to me too 
much like the name of the Commercial-Appeal’s correspondent 
(Ginocchio) and you don’t drink that with me.” They had a good 
laugh at John’s expense, and a drink of something else on the 
governor of Arkansas. 


CHAPTER XV. 


ANOTHER CHANGE IN ADMINISTRATION— EXPERIENCE 
WITH A CYCLONE— UP FOR CONTEMPT OF COURT. 
SOME RANDOM SKETCHES. 

jl/TENTION of changes in the personnel of the management of 

an enterprise may seerfl immaterial, but, as every human be- 
ing is different from all others, so the changes in the management 
of a business where others are concerned greatly effects the lives 
of the employees, as well as the business itself. 

Another change in the control of the Gazette took place on 
June 4, 1890, and, although the new manager, Judge W. M. Kav- 
anaugh, has been dead for a number of years, I still carry in my 
mind’s eye the mental snapshot which I gained of him when he 
came from Clarksville, Ark., and I first beheld that short, dumpy, 
stalwart, brown-haired young man, who had intelligence, energy, 
earnestness, eagerness and dogged determination stamped on his 
features. 

He became one of my best friends and greatest benefactors, 
and his brief but phenomenal newspaper, business, and political 
career, during which he successively filled the various positions 
of publisher, sheriff, county judge, founder and president of the 
Southern Trust Company, United States Senator, as well as num- 
erous other temporary positions of honor and trust in the com- 
munity, furnished a remarkable example of what a young man of 
ability and push may accomplish in this glorious land of op- 
portunity. 

The following episode will illustrate two pronounced traits 
of Mr. Kavanaugh’s character — that of being quick to resent an 
insult, or to protect his dignity and rights, and the spirit of gen- 
erosity which controlled him when his feelings were appealed to. 

One day a man had rudely attacked him about an adverse 


114 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


criticism which appeared in the paper. Both were standing in 
front of the newspaper office. Kavanaugh, to resent an insult, 
was prompted to strike the other man on the face, and the blow 
was so forcible as to send his antagonist sprawling on the side- 
walk, after which he had to be carried home. Mr. Kavanaugh 
regretted that he had felt called upon to punish the man, and in- 
sisted on providing medical attention and a nurse for him. They 
became warm friends. 

Another strong character connected with the paper’s his- 
tory during the same period was George William Caruth, who 
was president of the company from 1889 to 1895. President 
Cleveland appointed him Minister to Portugal, which took him 
away from the paper. He resigned his connection and sold his 
stock to me. He never failed to entertain a crowd by his droll 
remarks. He had a wonderful fund of anecdote, and his repartee 
in private conversation or public debate was as quick as a flash. 
He also had a laugh which, if once heard, was never forgotten. 

We had several good story-tellers on our board of directors, 
and often yarn-spinning took the place of the consideration of 
business at the meetings, as I learned when I became secretary 
of the company and had to be present. 

After the minutes of the preceding meeting had been read 
and approved, some word spoken or incident referred to would 
cause John G. Fletcher to say, “That reminds me,” and a story 
would ensue; then Colonel Bob Little would tell one, to be fol- 
lowed by Judge J. W. House or Mr. W. B. Worthen; and the up- 
roar would continue until some one moved an adjournment. 

And what a Big-Four these gentlemen did make! The like 
of them is scarce, as they were big men from every standpoint 
— hardy pioneers who had overcome many obstacles and won 
high places among their fellowmen. 

There were interesting and original characters connected 
with other departments. A Gazette man who during this period 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


115 


went from the worldly newspaper office into the sacred ministry 
was M. W. Manville, for years editor of the agricultural depart- 
ment, whom we called the “hayseed” editor. He had been a prac- 
tical farmer, and after getting the necessary religious training on 
the Gazette, he felt that he was called to cultivate the Lord’s vine- 
yard — to sow seed from which would be reaped spiritual food. 
And he obtained a green pasture, with a desirable flock. 

As the newspaper men had little chance for recreation, Judge 
Kavanaugh and I organized a Press Club in Little Rock. A 
billiard table and a reading room were provided. The member- 
ship was limited, and as the members saw each other nearly every 
day outside of the club, it soon became extinct. Its end was 
hastened by the fact that some of the members were inveterate 
card-players, while some of the others who belonged to the re- 
ligious press were prejudiced against this pastime, especially 
where bets were made. 

Many people do not know how careful a newspaper must be 
about what it prints. In the spring of 1901, while in charge of 
the business office, I had a narrow escape from jail for what 
seemed contempt of the United States Court. The paper pub- 
lished, as paid matter, a communication from a man in regard 
to a certain law-suit instituted against him in the State circuit 
court of another county. The article seemed to be entirely inno- 
cent, but it happened, unknown to me when I received it, that the 
man was being tried in the United States court on a criminal 
charge growing out of the former case, and Judge Trieber con- 
strued the matter as tending to influence the jury. Therefore, 
he jerked T. F. Kimball, the managing editor, and myself before 
the bar of justice. 

Mr. Kimball got off lightly, because he arrived in court 
after I did, but the judge made an example of me by reprimand- 
ing me severely and delivering a long lecture on my innocent act. 
I made a statement to the court, explaining how the matter came 


116 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


to be printed, and denying that there was any wrong intent. The 
judge stated that he should send me to jail, but forebore doing 
so, as he was satisfied that, while inexcusable, the affair was an 
oversight. The court room was crowded, and those who knew 
me guyed me unmercifully about it. I do not think the judge was 
warranted in this action. It seemed to me at the time that he took 
advantage of his position to deliver an unnecessary rebuke, but I 
may have been mistaken, as he bears the reputation of being a fair 
and an able judge. 

Judge Trieher is a stickler for dignity. I afterward served as 
a juror in his court, and had a good opportunity to observe him. 
I was struck with the ceremony in vogue in this court as con- 
trasted with the lack of it in our State courts. When his honor 
arrives in the morning, the crier announces his approach with, 
“Oh, ye, oh, ye, his honor, the Circuit Judge of the Eastern Dis- 
trict of Arkansas now approaches,” etc., and the occupants of 
the room stand while the Judge marches in. This Judge really 
trips along quickly in his movements. The Judges of the State 
courts do not stand on much ceremony. Indeed, if they tried it, 
they would never be re-elected by their democratic constituents. 
I rather like the ceremony, however. 

Speaking of this court, reminds me of a joke the crier tried 
to play on me. There were two burly negroes, as black as tar, 
on the panel of the venire on which I served. The crier desig- 
nated the seats for the jurymen, and he did his level best to seat 
me between the two negroes, but I evaded it. 

On another day one of the Gazette men who had been drawn 
as a juryman made a request of the judge to be relieved from 
duty, telling him how important it was that he be at the office; 
that there was no one to take his place, etc. The Judge looked at 
him a minute, and asked, “Young man, how long have you been 
connected with that paper?” Upon being informed that he had 
been employed on it for several years, the Judge said: “I am 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


117 


creditably informed that that paper has run along for something 
like a hundred years, most of the time without your valuable as- 
sistance, and I believe it can manage to exist for awhile without 
you; take your seat in the box, sir; we want important men on 
this jury.” 

One of the biggest items which the Gazette ever handled was 
the disastrous cyclone that struck Little Rock at about 10 o’clock, 
p. m., on October 2, 1894. This storm almost put the paper and 
myself out of business. 

I was standing at a desk in the front part of the office when 
I noticed that a strong wind was blowing, and, while I supposed 
that a storm was brewing, I had no idea what was coming. 

Presently I heard a terrific noise, timbers were flying around 
on the outside, and a scantling was blown through the window, 
which passed directly over my head with such rapidity and force 
that if it had struck me I should hardly have lived to tell this 
poor story. All the electric lights were put out, and after the 
cyclone had passed over the city, rain began to fall in torrents. 

I thought of my wife and baby, who were alone at home, 
eight blocks away, and, apprehensive of their fate, I started to 
go to them, but I found that I would be drenched to the skin if I 
did not have more than the usual covering to protect me. An 
umbrella was useless, on account of the heavy downpour of rain 
and the intense wind. With a candle to light me, I quickly went 
to the press-room and covered myself with heavy express wrap- 
ping paper, such as is used for bundling papers, and set out. 
In going to my house I had to walk over fallen telephone poles, 
wires, trees and all sorts of scattered debris ; and, as it was as dark 
as pitch, the effect on my nerves was terrible. 

I was rejoiced to find that my house was not in the path 
of the storm, and surprised to learn that my family was not 
aware of the severity of it. 

Scores of buildings were either demolished or greatly dam- 


118 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


aged by this storm, and two telephone companies were practi- 
cally put out of business, telegraph wires were blown down in 
all directions, a number of people had been injured and business 
was at a standstill for a day or tw r o. The property losses ran 
up into the millions. 

As the light and power plants were out of commission, and 
the streets were flooded by the heavy rainfall, it was extremely 
difficult to gather news about the catastrophe and there was 
great delay in getting out a paper, but it was finally issued and 
carried a graphic story of this terrible visitation of nature. 

A few weeks after the events narrated in this chapter, I took 
a brief vacation, which I spent with my parents in Texas. Dur- 
ing this visit, I was impressed with the apparent fact that some 
people do not have the proper regard for the newspaper man. I 
was all swelled up one day with the supposed importance of the 
newspaper business, and was indulging in a little braggadocio, 
when my father thought he would take me down a peg or two. 

“The average newspaper man,” said he, “doesn’t often 
possess any of the qualifications of a true journalist or a literary 
man, but is generally found to be a windy fellow, with no ideas 
of his own, but lots of gall to extract and some gab to describe, 
in mighty poor English other people’s ideas. Natural talent 
is not so much a necessity with him as a pair of big ears to catch 
on to and quick fingers to jot down, plenty of brass to enable him 
to stick his nose into other people’s business, and a pair of long 
shears with which to clip other men’s thunder. I know there are 
many honorable exceptions to the class described, and I would 
wish you to emulate them.” 

This held me for a while. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

SPECIAL EDITIONS— EXTRAS— CONTEMPORARIES. 


HERE were lean and distressing years in the newspaper busi- 



1 ness. When finances got short, which was by no means infre- 
quently, a special edition was sometimes resorted to. This was 
a great scheme at one time with most newspapers, but it has lost 
its pulling power and fallen into disrepute. The thing was over- 
done and abused, and it is a difficult matter nowadays to get up 
a successful special edition, unless it commemorates some impor- 
tant occasion. “It used to be a puddin’,” as one advertising 
expert expressed it. The usual plan on which it was worked 
was to announce a big issue of thousands of copies above the 
regular circulation, for the ostensible purpose of advertising the 
city’s natural advantages, its great resources and various indus- 
tries, to be written up and illustrated in extenso. Incidentally, a 
firm, corporation or individual would be permitted as a special 
favor to insert an advertisement in this mammoth issue, at a price 
about twice the regular advertising rate — and here is where the 
money was made. 

In the beginning, these special editions were got out by the 
paper’s own staff, and were perfectly legitimate enterprises, but 
by and by there were developed, or born, Special Edition Experts, 
who trotted around the country getting up such editions, some- 
times buying the space outright, but usually working on a per- 
centage basis. They received a large part of the receipts (some 
times as high as 50 per cent), and these professional special 
edition men are still doing business. They are often the smartest 
kind of fellows, calculated to pull a man’s leg or talk him into 
almost anything. And strange to say, people will listen to them 
when they would turn down the local man. Sometimes I fear 
these professionals use the same write-ups in every town, simply 
changing the names in them. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


There is a firm of these experts with whom the Gazette made 
a contract which turned out satisfactorily. Their plan was 
unique. They sent a man ahead, to make a special write-up of 
every concern and individual of any consequence in the city, 
before the edition was announced or an advertising order solicited. 



Explaining the Merits of a Great Special Edition. 

These write-ups or “puffs” are then at the proper time submitted 
to the victims, who are solicited to order same inserted, at so 
much per line, in the great Special, soon to be spread broadcast 
over the entire earth. The write-up is so complimentary, is 
presented by such an oily-tongued solicitor, and appeals to so 
many of the weaknesses of the individual who is approached, 
that it is hard for him to turn down the canvasser. In nine cases 
out of ten an order is secured, unless the customer has been there 
a few times before. 

What I say about special editions, which are said to belong 
to the grafting part of the business, is intended to be of a general 



Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


121 


nature. The Gazette’s One Hundredth Anniversary Number, 
issued November 20, 1919, in magazine form, on book paper, 
illustrated with half-tone engravings, was an especially worthy 
number, not to be classed with the “blue-sky” editions. 

Several special editions of the Gazette were got out by one 
of the old timers, by the name of Colonel M. L. DeMahler, who 
was connected with the staff off and on for a number of years. 
He was a linguist, a traveler, an artist, a geologist, as well as a 
clever writer, and withal a unique character. His contributions 
were usually signed “Potomac,” a pseudonym well known outside 
of as well as in the State. He did a world of writing of a high 
character, extending over many years, which, I am sorry to say, 
was not properly appreciated or rewarded; and likewise his 
services to the State in locating and advertising mineral and 
other resources were never acknowledged as they merited to be. 
He had actually walked over every county in the State of Arkansas. 
He was peculiar in appearance and manners, but, as he was 
exceedingly polite, instructive in conversation, deferential to 
women and loved children, he was a favorite in many homes. He 
had written up almost every county in the State, and his state- 
ments in regard to minerals, clays, coals and timbers were 
accepted as authoritative. He advertised the State by word of 
mouth and with his pen, and never ceased to sing her praises 
until death closed his flashing eyes, stayed his busy hand and 
silenced his loquacious tongue, at Harrison, Ark., in 1895. He 
was a German by birth, was understood to have come from a fine 
family, but his early life was evidently a mystery, and, though 
perhaps reared in luxury, he died penniless. The newspaper men 
buried him and placed a modest stone over his grave, bearing 
a brief tribute in the names of several of us who keenly felt his 
loss. 

His style of composition was original, but was not popular. 
His sentences were complex, long-drawn-out and burdened with 


122 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


foreign words and idioms. As the boys would say, he beat all 
around the bush in telling a story. 

The compositors despised his copy, and what they called it, 
after the disrespectful manner of thoughtless printers, would 
not look well in print. Some puffed-up writers and editors 
would feel mighty cheap if they heard the merciless criticisms 
which sarcastic printers pass upon their copy. 

I remember only one other man who contributed copy which 
was as difficult to set as that of DeMahler’s, and that was 
that of the late Colonel Sam W. Williams, who wrote able articles 
in a most miserable scrawl, for the setting of which the composit- 
ors demanded double compensation. This was before the type- 
writer came into such general use in the preparation of newspaper 
copy. 

The daily Gazette in the beginning was a six-day paper, but 
a Monday paper was started on November 20, 1906, to celebrate 
its 87th anniversary, and the paper was then issued every day in the 
year. I was not in favor of a seven-day paper, as it interfered with 
my religious tendencies, but the times and outside competition 
demanded it. Sunday’s paper, gotten up on Saturday night and 
issued about four in the morning, is the big issue, that day’s paper 
containing about twice the number of pages, and four times as 
much advertising, in dollars and cents, as week day issues. Before 
the Monday paper came, when something big occurred on Sunday, 
such as a battle during war times, a railroad wreck, a disastrous 
fire, or a great storm, an “extra” would be gotten out, in order 
to fulfill the paper’s duty to the subscriber, and also to avoid 
being “scooped” by other newspapers. The Associated Press 
operator worked on Sunday nights, taking the news from the wires, 
the same as on other nights, though the report might be thrown 
away. This looked like a waste, but it prevented important items 
from being lost. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


123 


At first these “Extras” were issued only to those who bought 
them, but latterly they were sent gratuitously to all subscribers. 



Up to the time the great war broke out, when the govern- 
ment restricted the circulation of free copies and exchanges by 
newspapers, the Gazette’s custom was to exchange its publication 
with every newspaper in the State, large or small. The difference 
in subscription rates, in the case of a weekly paper, was supposed 
to be paid in advertising the Gazette through the paper, but the 
rule was not enforced. 

The first thing the cross-roads publication did when it 
started out was to apply to the Gazette for an “exchange,” and 
one of the very next things some of them did was to criticize 
its city contemporary. 

Some of the local sheets could hardly exist without having 
recourse to the Gazette, which furnishes them the State and po- 
litical news. It is as important to them as their “patent insides,” 
and yet they are prone to find fault with it. Many of the editors 
of the community papers think they could conduct the Gazette 
a great deal better than it is being handled; and perhaps they 
could. Some of the members of the rural press are very bright. 
They could not succeed if they were not alert men of talents. 
Think of what the country editor must know. He edits the paper, 


124 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


looks after advertising, makes estimates on job work, and is 
man-of-all-work, often putting the reading matter in type him- 
self. Authorities declare that the country newspaper office is 
the place for a man to start to climb the journalistic ladder. And 
that is where I started; but all who make that start, unfortunately, 
do not become famous, else I migh have achieved fame. 

Nearly all the newspaper men of the State are members of 
the Arkansas Press Association, which has done much good, 
especially in a fraternal way. Its annual meetings are usually 
wound up with an excursion to some appropriate point, and 
these outings are enjoyable affairs. 



CHAPTER XVII. 


SIDE LINES— THE HOO DOO PLANT— INTOXICATED WITH 
POWER. 

T>ESIDES dabbling in real estate, I have at times found myself 
unable to resist the temptation to take on other side-lines. When 
the Gazette conducted a job printing department and bindery, 
owing to the facility afforded through this department, and 
because of my natural love for books and a leaning toward the 
publishing business, I was led to take advantage of several op- 
portunties to publish books in my own name. One of these was 
a little historical book, entitled: “Early Days in Arkansas,” by 
Judge W. F. Pope, an old settler. He was unable to get it out, 
it seemed, so I made an offer which he accepted, and I then con- 
tracted with the job printing department to print and bind it. 
The book was delivered to agents from the Gazette office, but no 
part of the transaction was allowed to interfere in any way with 
my duties or to be any burden on the concern. However, some of 
the boys made great sport at my humble attempt at the publishing 
business. I failed to enlist their sympathy or encouragement, and 
one of them posted the following somewhat sarcastic notice in the 
office one day, in rather an inconspicuous place as to outsiders, 
but where I would be sure to see it: 

NOTICE! 

“Sale of Allsopp’s celebrated book, ‘Early Days in Arkan- 
sas,’ is now going on inside. Positively no admittance except to 
those desiring to purchase the book. Each person must get in 
line and take his turn, to avoid he stampede.” 

This playing with bookish fire eventually led me to enter 
the bookselling business, as mentioned under another head, and 
I found that I could do better selling the publications of others 
than my own. 


126 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


In the year of our Lord, 1896, I came near going back on 
the “Old Lady,” and a little flirtation which I had with another 
newspaper put a bad crimp in my finances. To fill the usual 
“long-felt want,” there had been established in Little Rock a 
society and literary weekly, called the Saturday Bee, by George 
W. Gunder and Chris. Ledwidge. These young men induced me 
to join them in the enterprise a year later. 

It was my ambition at that time to get into something where 
I could have more of a proprietary interest. The Bee had an 
elegantly equipped office, was issuing an attractive weekly, and 
seemed to be a profitable proposition. I was to be “let in on 
the ground floor,” and could not help but make money out of 
the enterprise. Well, after arranging to spend only half of my 
time with the Gazette, for a proportionate amount of salary, I 
agreed to take a one-third interest in the newspaper, and ivas 
let in on the ground floor. 

The arrangement lasted only a short time, as I soon became 
sick of it. The thing proved to be financially a miserable failure, 
and it cost me a considerable sum to experiment with it, which 
took my savings for many moons. 

I finally became the sole owner of the magnificent property, 
sold the plant, on easy payments, to three different people, suc- 
cessively, and promptly got it back each time, on account of de- 
faults in payments. I finally traded it, for the fourth time, to a 
man who transferred it, with my consent, to another, who moved 
it to De Vail’s Bluff, where it was burned. I had been paid only 
a few dollars as a first payment. I held a mortgage on the outfit 
and the party agreed to keep it insured for my benefit, but he 
had failed to do so, and as he has not ackowledged the debt since, 
I never got a further cent out of it. It therefore turned out to 
be a regular hoo-doo plant. This Bee stung everybody who was 
connected with it except the last man. 

I was fortunate enough to be able to get back my former 



A Cartoon of the Business Manager. 


123 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


full position and salary on the Gazette, and I returned to it, a 
sadder but a wiser man. Soliciting business for a comparatively 
unknown paper, which I eventually discovered really had very 
little excuse for existence, was a different thing from working 
for a paper having the prestige of the Gazette. But, I believe 
now that if I had stuck to the Bee for a few years it could have 
been worked up to a profitable basis. I got scared too soon, 
perhaps. At any rate, the Bee gathered little honey for me, and, 
like Goldsmith’s publication of the same name, was unsuccessful 
and short-lived. 

A little authority, like a little learning, is sometimes a dan- 
gerous thing. Some time after my fiasco with the Bee, Mr. 
Kavanaugh was compelled through illness to be absent a great 
deal, and I was given full charge of the business. He gave me a 
letter clothing me with authority to act, and notifying all em- 
ployees to respect my orders as his own. I became somewhat 
chesty with authority and intoxicated with power. The super- 
intendent of the job department had been neglecting his duties, 
and I “fired” him as unceremoniously as a former autocratic czar 
would order the head of a Nihilist cut off. The stenographer 
declined to obey me in a certain particular, and I forthwith 
“canned” him, too. Both were good-hearted fellows, who had 
done much for me previously, and I regret that I did not put up 
with their failings and their disobedience to me as a temporary 
boss, letting some one else discharge them, if necessary. 

I have learned to be more tolerant, as I find that perfect 
men are scarce. The smart man is often a drunkard, or unre- 
liable. The faithful, conscientious man is sometimes a dullard, 
whose lack of enterprise is disgusting. So that it is impossible 
to find all the good qualities in the same person. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


SAM JONES* AND THE GAZETTE. 


RELIGIOUS controversy is the most disastrous thing that a 



x newspaper can engage in. The Gazette’s criticism of the 
celebrated Georgia evangelist, Sam P. Jones, in 1890, was a great 
mistake in policy. It temporarily lost the paper subscribers by 
the wholesale, and caused indiscriminating people to believe that 
its course in making light of him was an attack on religion, 
instead, as intended, of merely being a protest against the evan- 
gelist’s unusual and seemingly half-vulgar methods. 

The complaints received at the office showed that he was 
immensely popular. The harder the paper roasted his clownish 
sermons the greater the crowds he drew, for he was receiving 
splendid advertising. The majority of the people not only went 
to hear him out of curiosity, but they seemed warmly to endorse 
him. One day Sam put the question to an audience of about 
5,000 people, and I think they nearly all stood up to signify 
their endorsement of his course and their disapproval of the 
Gazette’s criticism. It taught me the lesson of letting people’s 
religious affairs alone. 

I was again scribbling for the paper at that time, and had 
a department of weekly comment, in which I dished up ponderous 
lucubrations on topics more or less current, which I fondly sup- 
posed were read with great avidity and had a tremendous influ- 
ence. It was in this column that Sam Jones was touched up for 
the first time in that paper, the editorial and news columns going 
for him afterward, although I do not suppose that my opinions 
had anything to do with the editor’s subsequent treatment of the 


matter. 


*Mr. Jones died on October 14, 1906, on a Rock Island train, near Perry, 
Ark., en route home from Oklahoma. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


Mr. Jones referred to the people of Little Rock as “dear 
dying sinners, of the wickedest city in the United States — apologies 
for men, of whom it would take one hundred, and lots of clay, 
to make one decent man,” etc., whereat I took it upon myself 
to preach him a little sermon through the paper, taking my text 
from the 9th and 10th verses of the first chapter of the Epistle of 
Paul to Titus: “For there are many unruly and vain talkers and 
deceivers, * * * whose mouths must be stopped, who sub- 

vert whole houses, talking things which they ought not, for filthy 
lucre’s sake.” I asked the people to do more thinking for them- 
selves, instead of being swayed by what was said by every dema- 
gogue, hypocrite or fanatic who has a flap-jack mouth which is 
wound up to work on the perpetual motion plan and wags an oily 
tongue. I declared that it was a desecration of the Sabbath to go 
to hear Sam Jones on that day, as he was merely an entertainer, 
and that the example set by one godly man or woman did more 
good than all the money-grabbing so-called evangelists that ever 
lived. I called attention to the fact that St. Paul said to the 
Corinthians, “Be ye imitators of me, even as I am of Christ, and 
whatsoever ye do, in deed or word, do all in the name of the Lord 
Jesus.” I tried to make the point that uncouth language and slang 
such as Sam Jones used in the pulpit could not be employed by a 
true servant of God in the name of the Lord. I averred that a 
good preacher, a true servant of God, “holding fast the faithful 
word as he hath been taught,” could exercise a greater influence 
than the man in any other calling, while the one who robs Chris- 
tianity of its dignity, solemnity and sublimity did the cause incal- 
culable harm. I asked that the gospel be preached in the good 
old fashioned way, which has comforted countless thousands and 
led them to glory, but that the sensational preacher be taken 
away, or reformed, in order that the “sword of the spirit” might 
prove its own power. I hit him as hard as I could, but merely in 
the way of deprecating his sensational methods. Strange to say, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


131 


I did not cause him to change his ways. Sam stuck to his original 
methods to the last. 

Some of the church people became wrathy when the Gazette, 
in referring to the termination of the meeting, stated that “Sam 
Jones closed his eight-day performance at Baucum’s Cotton Shed 
last night;” that the “entertainment was delightful, the comedy 
parts affording the audience a great deal of pleasure, as was fre- 
quently manifested by loud and uncontrolled laughter and the 
clapping of hands.” “Brother Jones,” wrote the reporter, who 
was Dick Brugman, a past grand master of ridicule, “was in good 
voice, and his trip up the Iron Mountain road had the effect of 
limbering up his joints, which greatly assisted him in his acrobatic 
movements about the stage, necessary to illustrate his minstrel 
jokes. The infants seemed to enjoy the fun as much as the grown 
folks.” 

When the Reverend Mr. Jones read that I think he is said to 
have called the author nothing milder than “a skunk.” 

The committee in charge of the meeting had purchased the 
large tent used for the occasion from a stranded circus company, 
and it was announced that God had closed the wicked circus to 
turn the canvas into a gospel tent; but, through some misunder- 
standing, it seemed, a settlement with the showmen had not been 
promptly made. Mr. Brugman, referring to this, stated: “Among 
the audience there were six or seven men, hungry and crestfallen. 
These men were the only ones present who could see nothing 
in Mr. Jones’ remarks to laugh at. They had followed a circus for 
years, and had heard the jokes before. They were present wait- 
ing for their pay for the tent. They wanted something to eat. The 
best clown in the world can not make the man laugh who has not 
tasted food for twenty-four hours.” 

This was sacreligious talk, in the opinion of the Jones ad- 
herents, and it may have been in bad taste, although it seemed to 


132 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


me, some of Mr. Jones’ language and antics were so coarse as to 
deserve it. 

Sam Jones came to Little Rock, to lecture or preach, almost 
every year after the event narrated, up to the time of his death, 
and I had additional opportunities to study the man and his 
ways. As a result, I am willing to admit that there may have 
been method in his madness, and that he no doubt did good, in 
reaching people whom dignified methods would not touch. I 
have learned more of the world and of its heterogeneous popula- 
tion, and, as Sam himself said, if you talk real sense to some 
people, they don’t know what it means. It is stated that he 
could earn $200 a day talking in his way, when he undertook to 
charge for his talks, while if he had talked nicely, as some people 
think he should have done, he wouldn’t have gotten twenty cents. 
“Do you see, Bud?” as he would have said. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE ATTEMPTED SHOOTING OF THE EDITOR. 


May 11, 1896, marked another important cycle in the history 
of the paper. On that date Colonel J. N. Smithee acquired con- 
trol of a majority of the stock of the company, and became its 
president and also editor of the paper. This was his second 
connection with it, having been its foreman about twenty years 
before, and later its editor. 

I heard him relate the story of the installation of the Asso- 
ciated Press Service. Before that great event, he said, the news 
dispatches were often twelve to twenty-four hours old; and at 
that time the paper was worked off in the afternoon, folded by 
hand and laid aside for the carriers until the next morning. How 
slow! Now the people demand live news from all over the 
world, hot from the wires, within a few hours after it transpires. 
The advances made in the newspaper business probably outstrip 
the improvements in any other business. In an 1820 file of the 
Gazette is a complaint from the editor that the mail from Wash- 
ington is two weeks overdue. Think of it! 

Colonel Smithee was to handle both the editorial and business 
ends. He appointed me secretary and assistant business manager. 
He trusted me in every way, and I tried to make his labor light. 
On Christmas, 1897, he presented me with a fine gold watch, 
which I still carry. 

The attempted shooting of Col. Smithee in the Gazette office 
by Senator R. D. McMullen of Yell county, during the session of 
the legislature, in 1897, of which occurrence I was more than an 
eye-witness, was really a ludicrous affair. Mr. McMullen was not 
a bad sort of a fellow, according to my idea. I knew him fairly 
well, as he and I had been members of the same law class, and I 
do not believe that he wanted to kill the Colonel. The editor had 


134 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


humiliated him beyond reasonable bounds by denouncing his 
actions and impugning his motives in voting on certain bills, and 
he was goaded on to make a show of resentment. The weapon 
used was a small 32-calibre revolver. Senator McMullen was 
within five feet of the Colonel when he fired, and his target was 
an extra large man; but the shot came nearer hitting me than 
Colonel Smithee. I was standing at McMullen’s side, and had 
just caught hold of his arm, when the weapon was discharged. 
The ball went into the office railing near me, at an angle of nearly 
45 degrees from Smithee. I immediately grasped both wrists of 
the assailant from behind and held him in such a position that 
he could not fire again, until others disarmed him. 

Colonel Smithee showed remarkable nerve, for he never 
flinched nor moved. He had bravely stood fire before many a 
time in personal encounters as well as in war. When McMullen, 
with cocked revolver, demanded an apology before he fired, 
Smithee simply told him that he had no apology to make, and 
stood up before him like a stone wall. 

Trouble had been expected, and when the Senator entered 
the office, apparently with “blood in his eye,” everybody got out, 
except the Colonel and myself, — and I suppose I would have run, 
if I had not been caught in a corner. 

There are hazards connected with the newspaper business. 
I remember that one night soon after I hired myself to the Gazette 
there was a little private war in the editorial rooms, which re- 
sulted from a write-up of an affair at Hot Springs. The lie was 
passed between the editors and the belligerent callers, when a per- 
sonal difficulty occurred, in which the editor, the manager, and 
others took part. Nobody was killed, but the affray was a serious 
one. 

Every once in a while a man will take offense at something 
which has been printed, and try to shoot up the office. 

The paper was not a financial success under Smithee’s ad- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


135 


ministration. W. B. Worthen was carrying the burden, in the 
shape of a $67,000 bonded debt and interest. The Colonel re- 
signed, and Mr. Worthen was elected President. I remained as 
secretary. 

Colonel Smithee alterward wrote a book, but he was greatly 
disapointed in not being able to find a publisher for it. A few 
months before his death he wrote me the following letter in regard 
to this book: 

“23 Irving Place, New York. 

“Dear Fred — I will soon have my book ready for publication. It will 
be very interesting to the public, and in so far as it deals with facts it is a 
faithful narrative, and most valuable to the student as well as to the general 
reader. When engaged in writing it I felt a great interest in the work. 
After I got through I didn’t think much of it. But those who have seen 
it give me great encouragement. I have been told by some that it is better 
and will be more popular than Winston Churchill’s ‘Richard Carvel,’ or 
‘Crisis’; Pidgeon’s ‘Blennerhasset,’ ‘Janice Meredith,’ ‘Eben Holden,’ or 
‘David Harum.’ 

“I am not carried away by these eulogies. The publisher must pass on 
the merits of the book. That there are many things new and startling in 
the volume — so far as the American reader is concerned — I am well aware. 
The book bears this title: ‘Aaron Lewis — A Story of the Southwest.’ (I may 
change this to a Story of the Trans-Mississippi.) 

“The foundation is the trip of Albert Pike from St. Louis across the 
plains. * * * 

“Sincerely, 

“J. N. SMITHEE.” 

The work contained some interesting and meritorious feat- 
ures, but it was not a novel, a history or a biography. It was a 
sort of literary conglomeration, and therefore was not saleable. 

The Colonel was supposed to have been unfortunate in some 
mining investments. After spending several months in Colorado 
with his family, and a term in New York, where he had friends, 
he returned to Little Rock, in 1902, and lived at the Merchants 
Hotel. He was often seen there by friends, with whom he joked 
and spun yarns, seemingly in good health and spirits. Therefore, 


136 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


on the 5th of July, of that year, I was shocked, as were hundreds 
of his friends, to hear the sad news that he had committed suicide 
by shooting himself. It was a shame! He was but 58 years of 
age, hale and hearty, of magnificent physique, capable of many 
years of usefulness. He was short of funds, and too proud to 
make known his circumstances to his friends, who were numerous 
and would have done almost anything to accommodate him, espe- 
cially if they had known that they could thereby have prevented 
such a sacrifice. In a fit of despondency he took his own life. 

Two days before he committed the rash act, he told me, in a 
cheerful vein, that he was going to Denver, and, referring to a 
life-size portrait of himself which hung over my desk, he said: 
“Well, Fred, I see you keep the old man up there; if you get tired 
of that picture, send it to my folks in Denver.” 

I was a pall-bearer at his funeral, and I never attended a 
sadder one. It was hard to realize that a great and noble-hearted 
Southern gentleman had passed away under such unhappy cir- 
cumstances. 

He left two notes, one of which read : 

“Take my body to W. M. Tindall’s undertaking establishment. I want 
no one but him to handle it. I would prefer cremation, as I believe all 
dead bodies should be thus disposed of. If that cannot be done, a plain pine 
coffin will suffice. It is a matter of indifference to me where the remains 
are planted. The less ceremony at the funeral the more it will please 

“J. N. SMITHEE.” 

This was his last message to the world, addressed to no one 
in particular. The words were written with ink, in his usual 
handwriting, without an apparent tremor, every character being 
carefully and beautifully penned. 

Men sent gay flowers to deck his tomb, 

Who, had they earlier sent him cheer, 

They might have long delayed his doom; 

Forgive them, Lord! and if, through fear, 

Poor Smithee, erred, forgive him, too, 

For to his friends, he was most true! 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


137 


There is a rustic picture of Colonel Smithee hung in a cham- 
ber of my memory. I was spending a Sunday at the country 
home of my father-in-law, James Chappie, about eight miles west 
of Little Rock, when, driving along the country road, close to the 
farm house, came the Colonel, in company with his life-long 
friend, the celebrated Senator A. H. Garland. They were on their 
way to town from Garland’s country retreat, known as “Hominy 
Hill.” Remember that Garland was a distinguished man. He 
had held almost every public office within the gift of the people 
of Arkansas, including that of Governor and United States Sena- 
tor, and he had also served as Attorney General of the United 
States in President Cleveland’s cabinet. Then think of this pic- 
ture of rural simplicity: Garland and Smithee, both corpulent 
men, seated beside each other, on a bare plank seat, in a common 
farm wagon, drawn by two mules and driven by a negro man. 
The men were dressed in the commonest kind of garb, without 
collars, suspenders or coats; and you would have thought, if you 
did not know them, that they were bushwhackers, hedgers or 
ditchers. They had spent a jolly time at Hominy Hill, which is 
so well hidden in the recesses of the woods that it is said few peo- 
ple can find it at all. While built in country fashion, this house 
was provided with every comfort, and there Senator Garland is 
said to have stored one of the finest private libraries in the 
country. He also usually kept on hand for his friends a goodly 
supply of the best whiskey. 

Colonel Smithee had a kind heart and a generous disposition. 
He was a great benefactor to the printers. He will ever be re- 
membered by the old employees of the Gazette for having sent each 
year during his incumbency as its manager a big fat turkey to 
the family of each married employee on Thanksgiving Day. This 
was an incentive to matrimony. 

0, who would not be married folks 
On blest Thanksgiving Day, 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


When the old Gazoot gives turkeys fat, 

Besides the usual pay? 

The bachelor swells and spinsters sour 
Cannot get in on this — 

And matrimony’s coveted 
By every man and miss. 

Why not tie up with some one sweet, 

To live on love and turkey meat, 

In some secluded home retreat? 

Another evidence of Colonel Smithee’s big-heartedness was 
the giving of a bountiful dinner to all the newsboys and the send- 
ing of them to a matinee performance at the theatre on Christmas 
Day. 

He also gave medals to negro life-savers who had distin- 
guished themselves by rescuing boys from drowning in the Ark- 
ansas river. 

It was Colonel Smithee, assisted by George R. Brown, who 
started the movement for the erection of the beautiful Confeder- 
ate monument which stands near the entrance to the new State 
Capitol grounds in Little Rock, but he did not live to see it 
unveiled. 

The creation of the Arkansas Railroad Commission was due 
to his advocacy of it. 

The unpleasant experiences which we have with mankind 
sometimes cause us to forget the good in human nature, and 
inclines us to doubt if there are many really good-hearted people 
in the world. A few years ago the Gazette inaugurated along 
this line a feature that was inspiring. This was a Goodfellow 
Christmas Club, through the operation of which the Goodfellows 
contribute Christmas cheer to needy children or other poor per- 
sons. The whole thing is conducted anonymously. Some one 
is employed to obtain and write in a book the addresses of indi- 
gent persons; their condition and characters are investigated, and 
when approved, the names are furnished to kind-hearted folks 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


139 


who will undertake to help them, or contributions may be placed 
by the person in charge of the Club. The newspaper is merely 
the clearing-house. 

That charity which is bestowed in connection with having 
one’s name printed, with the amount set opposite, is often mere 
ostentation; but when a man or a woman offers to give money or 
other gifts, simply to be donated where needed, without being 
known in the transaction, and with no hope of any present re- 
ward, it is known that that person’s heart is in the right place. 
It is genuine charity. It evidences a proper Christmas spirit. 

On a Christmas Day just before this was written, one man 
sent in a draft for $100 to provide a bicycle for a cripple boy, 
who was an entire stranger to him; a lady called to say, “I will 
take care of three or four poor boys or girls;” a retired army 
officer offered to deliver to a needy, worthy girl of ten years, 
dresses, dolls and other things which his daughter had outgrown; 
a man sent word that he would provide for some orphan chil- 
dren — and he did not care how far out they lived, as he would 
deliver the articles in his automobile; and so on. 

Such acts were revelations to a callous person, and made glad 
the hearts not only of the recipients of the gifts, but of all who 
were acquainted with the good deeds. 


CHAPTER XX. 

OPIE READ.— A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S REVELRY. 


rpHE Gazette has had attached to it during its more than one 
A hundred years’ existence numerous great and good men. 

The humorist, Opie Read, had disconnected himself from 
the paper only a short time before I went to work for it — -prob- 
ably because he heard I was coming. He left the Gazette to 
establish the “Arkansaw Traveler,” which enjoyed a great circu- 
lation and reputation for a number of years. His fun was called 
Arkansas humor, in a derisive way, but his writings were read and 
laughed over by countless thousands. One of his novels describes 
his early newspaper experience in Arkansas. 

Since Mr. Read has become a celebrity, it may be interesting 
to know how he started as a writer. He had served both as a 
printer and a writer on several small papers, when he is said to 
have drifted from a country printing office in Arkansas to a 
position as a typesetter in the composing room of the Arkansas 
Gazette. One night the editor went to the room where the printers 
were at work, to look for a man to take the place of a reporter who 
was sick. The foreman on behalf of the editor requested a printer 
named Charles Elbright to take the assignment, but the man de- 
clined the work. As a joke, it was then suggested to Opie that 
he become the supply man. He accepted, and his first piece of 
copy, which covered a sensational police court item, proved to 
be a bunch of humor. The editor was so highly pleased that he 
offered to retain Opie in the news room; — and thus he started on 
the road to fame. 

Here is a joke which is said to have been perpetrated by 
Read on an Englishman: One day, while Read was conducting 
the Traveler, a printer who slurred his “h’s” called at the office, 
on West Markham street, in Little Rock. After the man had gone, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


141 


Read took several cap “h’s” from a case of type, wrapped them 
in a piece of paper and sent them to the printer, with this note: 

“Dear Mr , here are some h’s which you dropped in our 

office. — Opie Read.” 

In my early days I read everything from Read’s pen that I 
could get my hands on, for his was about the only literary publi- 
cation in the State, and among the material which I remember 
reading in the Traveler shortly after my arrival in the “Rock,” 
was a skit in blank verse, which burlesqued several well-known 
Arkansas newspaper men and a lawyer. It was very amusing to 
those who were familiar with the circumstances referred to in it. 
As it reflects a light on newspaper affairs of other days long past, 
I propose to quote from that long-forgotten piece. 

Some of the newspapers at that time advocated the recogni- 
tion by the State of certain invalidated State bonds, and they were 
accused by those interested on the other side of having ulterior mo- 
tives in advocating their payment. I believe the editors to have 
been sincere and honest, as well as loyal to the State’s interests. 
They were no doubt misjudged, as many patriotic newspaper men 
have been, before and since. They believed that the State should 
pay her legal debts, and there w 7 ere many people who thought, 
and still think, that while there may have been fraud connected 
with the issuance of the repudiated bonds by the Republicans dur- 
ing Reconstruction days after the Civil War, the bonds were issued 
by those in authority, were in the hands of innocent holders, who 
had given full value for them, and they should be paid; or, at 
least, that it would have been much better for the fair name of 
the commonwealth if they had not been repudiated. Time has 
justified that belief. 

There are always meanly disposed people who are ready to 
question a good man’s motives, especially those of an editor who 
does not think as they do. Opie Read was not one of those who 
would have purposely reflected on his brother editors, but he was 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


a jolly humorist. It happened that a bunch of editors met at 
Little Rock and had a little blow-out, in the days when there was a 
decanter in nearly every newspaper office, as well as on the home 
sideboard. Mr. Read was probably one of the party, and it is 
supposed that he was really the “old Snoozer,” who is represented 
as asking why good business men should loan money to editors. 
This sketch was intended as a burlesque on Madam Rumor’s 
talk about the editors of those early days: 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S REVELRY. 

“Scene — Little Rock newspaper office. Time — Night. A company of 
gentlemen are assembled at supper around a table. 

First Editor: 

“What ho, good company! by th’ buttons on 
The coat that Thomas Jefferson once wore, 

Let’s lift our glasses high and gayly drink 

The health of our good friends, and their great plans. 

Which like the clustered grapes beneath the glow r 
Of sun and gleam of moon do brightly ripen. 

Second Editor: 

“Ah! gentlemen, come drink ye one and all. 

For by the powers that some men great are made. 

And others small are thrown out from the molds^ 

Our plans are laid to make the country howl; 

Yes, by the flannel shirt Diana wore, 

And by the horns of every brindle cow 

That lashes flies on Pine Bluffs spacious green, 

I’m going to give the throb of actual life 
To this most bold and giant enterprise 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


143 


Lawyer : 

“0, Caesar, Plato, Jumbo, all the rest, 

Come bow your heads and hear his royal nibbs. 

By my coupons, from whencely dost thou hail? 

Second Editor : 

“By my fine Roman nose, how dare thou ask? 

Lawyer : 

“Well, now, by Jove’s ambitious Syndicate, 

I think this high and double-jointed cheek. 

Did I not lend ten thousand ducats once? 

First Editor: 

“Hush, Dossie, hush; be quiet a while, I pray, 

For that old snoozer standing over there 
Does not well understand the ways of life. 

You could not in a twelvemonth make him see 
Why I should borrow money. Other men 
Can borrow all they want, you know, my friend, 

And not the slightest kind of kick is made, 

But when I borrow half of what I need, 

The people howl and rend their nether clothes. 

Old Snoozer:” 

“Ah, by the way, most noble Colonel, 

Since you have brought the subject to the light, 

Blamed if I wouldn’t like to know why you, 

At one full swoop, ten thousand ducats borrow? 

First Editor: 

“Have I no right, my friend, to borrow funds? 

Old Snoozer:” 

“All men may have a right to borrow. Colonel, 

But, by my plowshares, what I want to know 
Is why good business men should make such loans. 

- Old Fogy: 

“And while the subject’s up, will you tell me 

Is this Gazette a democratic sheet, ? 

Or do the Rads now claim your mighty quill? 

When Brower took his journey to the North, 

The man who spread the ink while he was gone 
Whitewashed old Dorsey and upheld the gang. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


First Editor: 

“Here, now, allow me for all time to say 
That all men who make such a claim as that 
Do shame the naked truth and simply lie. 

Old Fogy: 

“Don’t you say, sir, that I have told a lie! 

First Editor: 

“I say, by that famed squint of Tilden’s eye, 

Thou liest like the man who catches fish, 

Or like the man who kills the biggest snake. 
****** 

“The dark-winged bird of sleep moved o’er the scene, 
And none too soon^ for Gods! the wine was mean!” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE MERCHANDISE OF ADVERTISING. 


What is it makes people famous? 

Persistent work and printers’ ink. 

What is it makes merchant princes? 

Advertising brings them chink. 

A LARGE part of the time which I have eked out in a news- 
paper office has been devoted to the dear advertiser and 
the selling of space. And as this is the age of advertising, as 
well as steel and iron, I consider it an important work. 

The commodity of advertising is really what furnishes the 
sinews of newspaper warfare, as is generally understood. If it 
were not for the large revenue which comes from public an- 
nouncements made through the medium of its columns, the aver- 
age newspaper would be much smaller than at present, even 
though the typesetting machine has materially cheapened compo- 
sition. Fully two-thirds of the revenue coming to the publishers 
of most newspapers and magazines is paid in by the advertiser. 
Each copy of the Saturday Evening Post, which sells for a nickel, 
is said to cost about 24 cents to produce. The advertiser has to 
pay the difference, with a profit added. The advertiser, there- 
fore, is the publisher’s best friend. And here is where, in many 
instances, the publisher or his advertising managers and clerks 
barter off their very souls for a mess of pottage. It is here that the 
newspaper man encounters his greatest temptation, and usually 
falls. 

The first thing the shrewd buyer of space asks, if he is on 
to his job, is what is your rate; and the next question is as to 
your circulation. The card rate is produced, and the circulation 
and distribution is exaggerated, except in the cases of exceptional 
saints like me. Conditions are better now than formerly in this 


146 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


respect, but the advertiser almost expects you to lie about your 
circulation, and the fake publisher makes the honest man’s circu- 
lation look like thirty cents. This condition was so well nigh 
universal up to a few years ago that it became customary for the 
newspaper directories and the large buyers of space, such as the 
patent medicine men, to demand sworn circulation statements. 

When I was first broached on the subject of a sworn state- 
ment of circulation, I took it as a reflection, and for a time refused 
absolutely to furnish such a document. I told the advertiser who 
would not take my word for our circulation that he could stay 
out; but I was compelled to reverse myself on this, for the use 
of such affidavits became general, and they are now furnished 
as a matter of course. The general advertiser is now getting the 
question of circulation down to an exact science, and the Audit 
Bureau of Circulation, of Chicago, is officially determining the 
circulation of the leading newspapers. The post office depart- 
ment now also requires each publication that goes through the 
mails at second class rates to print on the first days of April and 
October of each year a sworn statement, not only of its average 
paid circulation for the preceding six months, but showing its 
ownership and the names of the holders of any bonds which it 
may owe. 

A few years ago a letter received from a prominent New 
York advertiser stated that it would be necessary for him to re- 
ceive an affidavit of circulation covering the following informa- 
tion: 

“DISTRIBUTION OF CIRCULATION. 

“1. Total copies mailed or delivered by carriers on paid 
subscriptions. 

“2. Total copies sold to news companies, news stands, etc., 
net after deducting all returns on unsold copies. 

“3. Total copies sold to newsboys, net after deducting 
returns. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


147 


“4. Total sent to advertisers and advertising agencies. 

“5. Total exchanges. 

“6. Total number of free sample copies actually mailed or 
otherwise distributed. 

“7. Total number of papers sold in bulk, distributed free 
for advertisers or for political purposes. 

“8. Total number returned, unsold, spoiled in printing, etc. 

“9. Give actual press room run. 

“N. B. — All of the eight clauses must be answered and at- 
tested before a notary. We do not want averages, but actual 
figures.” 

The clerk who handled it said: “It’s a wonder he didn’t ask 
to know how many were sent by the advertising clerk to his 
sweethearts, under penalty of death for furnishing false in- 
formation.” 

After the circulation has been proven to the satisfaction of 
the advertising magnate, he begins to beat down the rate. All 
sorts of offers are made, and, to get a juicy contract, the tempta- 
tion to give a discount or some concession, when demanded, is 
hard to resist. The strict enforcement of a uniform flat rate is, 
perhaps, the exception outside of the larger newspaper offices. 
The newspaper man has a hard time to be exactly truthful in his 
circulation statements and absolutely fair in charging all alike 
for space. Conditions have, however, undergone a great improve- 
ment in this respect in recent years. The publisher has become 
more business-like. 

The newspaper man runs up against plenty of fakers who 
have gold bricks to sell. The patent medicine men are among 
the toughest customers. They are nervy and want the earth 
when they come around. They must have the best position, the 
lowest rate, and often want you to print for them as to the won- 
derful properties of thier medicines the most extravagant claims 


148 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


and the most barefaced lies. Some of them also go so far as to 
ask you to gather testimonials for them, and to go out and place 
their goods with the druggists, if their advertisements are wanted. 
Then you must give free readers, print the picture of the alleged 
great inventor or medical wizard who compounds the stuff. You 
must also as a rule accept the business through an agent, which 
costs you a commission of fifteen per cent. 

Some of these advertisements are postively nauseating, and 
the self-respecting publisher is often compelled to draw the line 
on them and insist on editing the copy. To a certain extent the 
publisher is a sort of common carrier in respect to carrying ad- 
vertisements, and it is often considered that he merely rents the 
space to the advertiser to put in what he pleases, provided the 
matter is not illegal, indecent or libelous; but publishers are 
waking up to the fact that they have a higher duty to perform. 
Many influences have been at work in recent years to improve 
the standard of newspaper advertising. The Associated Ad. Clubs 
are entitled to credit for their efforts in bringing publishers to a 
realization of their responsibility in this respect. 

The rapid changes in advertising copy which have been 
brought about since my entrance in the business are worthy of 
note. In the beginning, advertising announcements of business 
concerns were merely matter-of-fact reading notices or cards sim- 
ilar to the present legal notice, set in small type, informing the 
public that a certain merchandise could be purchased at such 
and such a place. Later the advertiser made use of what is called 
stud-horse type, and he employed circus-like exaggeration of 
language to call attention to his wares. As the science progressed 
attractive types, pretty borders, artistic illustrations, and snappy 
descriptive matter, came more and more into use, and prices, in 
prominent figures, were relied upon to draw trade. At present 
most of the advertisements appearing in the better class of publi- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


149 


cations are real works of art, designed to please the eye, hold the 
attention and to bring results. 

The following contract form was intended to serve as a 
“take-off,” but it does not greatly exaggerate the nerve evidenced 
by many advertisers who reap big harvests from cheaply-bought 
newspaper publicity: 

“ADVERTISING CONTRACT. 

“ Elixir of Youth Company: 

“Dear Sirs — We hereby agree to publish your advertisement in the cen- 
ter of the first page of each edition of our paper, having no other adver- 
tisement thereon, filling up the page with the latest and most attractive 
telegraph news of the day. We have just refused to renew contracts for 
370,000 agate lines from seventy-eight advertisers who have been with us 
for 100 years, and who have paid for all of their ads. in advance, and who 
did not ask us to advertise in their catalogues or directories and who never 
tried to sell us any ink, type, mailing machines or labor saving devices of 
any kind. 

“We agree to send you proof each day of your ad. as inserted on the 
front page of our paper, a consideration accorded to no other advertiser than 
yourselves. This, in connection with the foregoing, should convince you that 
we are not making any other contract at anywhere as low a figure as the 
price named for yours, the same being just one-half the price charged our 
lowest patron. 

“We agree to send you as many copies of the paper as you desire for 
yourself or for your friends, and at the end of the year, when you desire 
to make up your books prior to settlement, shall be glad to express to you 
our files, that you may compare same with papers sent out from time to 
time, and all ads. that are not put in the part of the paper that you think 
would be most advantageous, shall be deducted from your bill. 

“We agree to refuse to print the advertisement of any other firm who 
shall offer copy touching on a preparation that is in any way competitive 
to yours, and shall refuse to insert the advertisements or deliver the paper 
by carrier even when paid for, to any druggist who shall refuse to carry 
your goods in stock in gross lots. We guarantee that the advertising in our 
paper shall create for you a demand from which you will sell twenty-five 
times the number of dollars worth of goods that your advertising costs in 
our paper. 

“Should you desire annual passes to the theatres, race tracks, street 


150 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


fairs and national conventions held in our city, or any other city hard by* 
we shall deem it a special favor if you allow us to furnish same to you 
with our compliments. 

“We agree to procure for you at least twenty-five testimonials each 
week from governors, presidents and others of high degree, each of whom 
has taken every other preparation known to suffering humanity and tried 
every doctor without success, and who was finally cured by reading your 
advertisement and buying a bottle of your medicine. 

“Kindly let us know as soon as is convenient how much transportation 
you and your friends and families can use over the railroad, steamship* 
interurban and stage lines in the United States, Canada, Philippine Islands 
and Missouri, that we may furnish you with sufficient mileage. 

“We agree to run a full page free for every six inches of display adver- 
tising that you shall give us at the schedule rates, and agree to renew this 
contract each year for ten years at a lower rate than named herein. 

“You may furnish us mental copy, the thought being sufficient. We 
shall weave the words and illustrations, which we believe will be more con- 
venient to you than to have plates or mats prepared, or even to write the ad. 

“Advertising not in accordance with this contract shall be run for you 
at nothing per inch, position requested; payable semi-annually as used, it 
being understood that you will use during one year from the date of your 
first insertion, at least 10,000 inches, you to furnish copy and keep us sup- 
plied with schedule giving date of insertions of your ads. during the year* 
we to put you on the mailing list at once. 

“City 

“Paper 

The fellow who makes you “real mad” is the one who has 
written for your advertising rates, and upon receiving them and 
finding them higher than he expected, sarcastically replies that 
he did not want to buy your paper, but only wanted a little space 
in it. He thinks he has said something smart. 

The advertisements of the little retail store are sometimes 
prosy and common-place, but I remember one enterprising user 
of space whose mind, or that of his ad. writer, always rose above 
the ordinary. I do not see how he contained himself in a sordid 
grocery store, as he was ever reverting to rhyme. He liked his 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


151 


name, for he rhymed everything with it, which was Kime, we will 
say. He printed a great many classical effusions, something like 



Tickled Over Making a Fat Advertising Contract. 

the following, often getting his poetical fe.et mixed up with the 
groceries in the most comical fashion: 

KIME’S RHYMES. 

Kime always keeps a’hustling for your dime, 

Eight bars of soap for a quarter all the time ; 

Remember us when you’re in need of lime, 

Or Fletcher’s coffee, which is superfine, 

As will be demonstrated February nine; 

Let everybody have a cup with Kime. 

Some sordid people do not appreciate high class poetry like 
Kime’s and mine, and several subscribers became tired of this 
continual Kimeing-rhyming. One day one of them sent in this 
metrical protest: 

KIME’S RHYMES. 

He should be fined a hundred times 
For perpetrating rotten rhymes. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


Some hungry men who like to roar 
Will read the ads. about his store, 
And then go out upon the street 
And vomit all the food they eat. 

If I were an adept in crime 

I’d smash the face of this man Kime. 


IT HAS COME! 



GEO. 0. HYDE, OPP. STATE 

Will T*H You AlLAboul It 



Reprint of an early type of the display advertisement which appeared in the 
Gazette 45 years ago. It is the advt. of a hatter. 


In the days before we put the ban on matrimonial ads. many 
surprising appeals were sent in for those columns. Here is an 
odd sample: 


HELP! HELP! HELP! 

“A POOR WIDOW IN LOVE AND TROUBLE.— Will the 
man that stopped here four or five years ago and proposed 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 153 

to me please come back, as I’ve decided I could love you. I 
have forgotten name, but I am hunting the cattle man on his 
way from Idaho to New Orleans. Will some one knowing of 
such a person communicate with me at once, as my heart is 
breaking to find him. If the man sees this, please come rip- 
ping and staving. Mrs. , Stamps, Ark.” 

The little classified ads. have become a very important and 
a decidedly interesting feature of the newspaper. The Wanted 
columns frequently contain ads. that have human interest stories 
back of them. Here is what I imagined I saw in one the other day : 

A WANT AD. 

Wanted — By a man of modest fame, 

Small bank account, high social aims, 

Who has not sullied his good name 
Through drunken routs or poker games, 

Attractive room with bath attached, 

In some sequestered home, refined. 

In which a man who long has batched 
True hospitality may find. 

He will not mind if there’s a child, 

Canary, cat, or guinea pigs, 

But swearing parrots set him wild 
And giddy girls with periwigs, 

Who start Jazz tunes at six, a. m. 

He would by no means tolerate; 

While waltzes played at twelve p. m. 

He could not but abominate. 

A love of nature, simple tastes, 

Rouse longings for a shady tree, 

Green plants and vines to cheer the wastes, 

And other pretty things to see 
On stairway or around the door; 

A pink-cheeked maid would help along 
On Sunday afternoons that bore, 

For he loves women and their song. 

Nothing pretentious is required — 

Merely some little, home like place, 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


Such as yourself some time desired, 

If you have loved fair nature’s face — 

A small white house, with colored blinds, 

Set back a piece from noiseless street, 

Whose atmosphere the spirit binds 
And makes life’s melody more sweet. 

— W-56, Care Journal. 

NOTE BY THE EDITOR. 

Did you step from a daguerreotype 
Of a hundred years ago, 

Before the autos claimed the streets. 

And life was kind-a slow? 

Were any answers possible 
To this romantic pine, 

The editor would gulp them down, 

Including hook and line. 

The ads. provide a lot of needs 
For which dear people sigh, 

But heaven’s not among the things 
A Wanted ad. can buy. 

The Classified columns of a newspaper often contain amus- 
ing inversions of words and other mix-ups of language, as well 
as bad punctuation, which make the adlets say things that were 
not intended. For example: 

FOR SALE — A baby buggy; going out of business and 
leaving the city. 212 W. 30th St. 

WANTED — A first class colored wagon cook. Apply 1811 
West 16th. 

FOR SALE — A table, by a lady with mahogany legs. 210 
E. 89th St., City. 

BEST CASH PRICES PAID for all kinds of second-hand 
furniture, moving and storage. Phone Main 327. 

WANTED, TO BUY — A violin and outfit for beginner in 
good condition. Call Woodlawn 8002. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


155 


FOR SALE — White iron bed; also baby-walker leaving the 
city; must sell. Call Main — . 

FOR RENT — Nicely furnished room for a lady modern; 

Apply 314 — St. 

FOR SALE — Jersey cow, giving 3 gals, of milk a day, a 
sewing machine and table linen. X-43 — . 

A concern on Josef Boulevard, Budapest, which was looking 
for fashionable daily newspapers in America, got the verbs and 
other parts of speech misplaced in the English of its letter, when 
it wrote: 

“The intention we have our fine arts goods to announce on the inser- 
tion organs of your city. 

“As the addresses the journals of are unknown for us, our address we 
request kindly by telephone you mention by the fashionable daily of your 
city newspapers, and them authorize the rates advertising to send. 

“Us freely in similar cases command, and beforehand our thanks ac- 
cept.” 

There is no scarcity of people who want to defraud the pub- 
lisher out of advertising. The most ingenious propositions are 
put out to try to catch the gullible newspaper man. One con- 
cern sends out a proposition to send a machine, valued at $25, 
for a check for $10 and $15 in advertising at regular rates, and 
agreeing as a further consideration to take further advertising 
on an all-cash basis “if this trial proves to be a puller.” 

Another manufacturer, doesn’t ask for any cash payment, 
but generously offers to send a $10 article for a like amount of 
advertising. 

Still another wants to place business, and pay for the space 
by a percentage of the sales which it creates. 

The mails are full of circular letters soliciting the insertion 
of reading notices, in the guise of news matter, in regard to prod- 
ucts, which the manufacturers promise will be advertised “in your 
columns later on.” “Later on” is too indefinite, even though 


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there was any reason for inserting the propoganda readers or any 
guarantee that the promise would be respected. 

The well-informed publisher has cut an eye-tooth and is too 
smart to be gulled. 

There are advertisers who are still under the impression that 
the editorial department of an influential newspaper can be con- 
trolled or bribed with a good-sized contract, and will venture to ask 
the publisher to stipulate that “nothing shall be printed which is 
any way antagonistic to the advertiser.” Of course, such a clause 
is stricken out of a contract by every self-respecting publisher. 

The resourceful advertising agents have also developed 
numerous ways of imposing on the newspaper. A leading agency 
recently sent out a letter in which it promised to forward a juicy 
advertising schedule, provided the publisher was in a receptive 
mood in regard to what is called advertising promotion co-opera- 
tion, or in other words, would undertake to assist the agency in 
performing work for which it was probably paid. Among the 
questions propounded in this connection were the following: 

“1. Will you send letters and broadsides to all dealers, an- 
nouncing the advertising campaign? 

“2. — Will you furnish route lists for all lines of dealers? 

“3. Will you furnish one or more men to work with sales- 
men, or crew, giving proper introductions to dealers and assist 
in sales work? 

“4. Will you arrange for and secure window and counter 
displays? 

“5. — Will you arrange to give a sales talk to the department 
or sales people about the merits of the product to be advertised, 
in an effort to secure their co-operation?” 

The unitiated would be surprised to learn the true inside of 
some business transactions. 

At a get-to-gether meeting of newspaper men, advertising men 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


157 


and manufacturers, held at Kansas City some months before this 
writing, the advertising men were told by the publishers that they 
were attempting to work a free-horse to death; that the honest 
newspaper was selling space at low rates, and thus providing a 
service entirely apart from merchandising. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE ESTEEMED SUBSCRIBER.— THE NEWSPAPER, THE 
GOAT— THE FIELD REPRESENTATIVE— THE 
OFFICE PUNSTER. 

W HILE the chief revenue of a newspaper must come from its 
advertising columns, the ability to obtain and hold this adver- 
tising is largely due to the character and extent of its circulation, 
although it is then necessary to go after it intelligently. 

The elusive subscriber is what every paper has to hustle for, 
and in these days of great competition all kinds of inducements 
have been offered and schemes resorted to by many publishers 
to boost circulation. The scarcity and costliness of print paper, 
since the war, has slowed up to some extent the mad efforts of 
publishers to extend their circulations, but in years gone by prizes 
premiums, guessing and voting contests have been used in efforts 
to capture subscribers. I have tried all these plans, but the best 
way to build up a circulation, and the only way to hold it, is to 
provide a paper so good as to make it a necessity to the reader. 

When the subscriber is landed, he often wants to tell the pub- 
lisher how to conduct the paper, and it is as easy to invent per- 
petual motion as to try to please all of the dear public. No other 
enterprise is subject to so much criticism, because every act of the 
newspaper comes under the scrutiny of the public eye. Charles 
Dudley Warner once wrote that there were scattered through the 
land many persons who were unable to pay for a newspaper, he 
was sorry to say, but he had never heard of one who was unable 
to edit one. Opie Read replied to this witticism by saying that 
Mr. Warner was wrong; that there was on that particular day a 
man in Arkansas who was unable to edit a newspaper — but he 
had died the day before. 

One trouble the editor has is to satisfy people who want 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


159 


news withheld which in some way reflects on them or has a 
bearing on their business and private affairs. A certain dignitary 
quit speaking to me and fell out with the entire force of the news- 
paper because the editorial department could not be persuaded 
by His Majesty or his friends to omit mention of a street fight in 
which his Royal Nibs was mixed up. The editor rightly con- 
tended that the bigger the man, the more important the item, and 
that it could not be overlooked. I had no more to do with the 
publication of the item than the man in the moon, but the offended 
Big Ike blamed everybody connected with the establishment for the 
publicity given him. The newspaper man is always the goat. 

THE NEWSPAPER GOAT. 

There are goats that get the garbage, paper goats, 

Tin-can goats, and goats that eat the weeds; 

Also lucky ones that feed on hay and oats. 

But the goat that gets the blame, our pity needs, 

Is the one that in newspaper plants is found. 

His uneven path's beset with many snares, 

For no matter what mistakes in things abound, 

They berate the press for all the bad affairs. 

Old Man Public sits in judgment, loud he blames the papers all — 

If a plague spreads he will baste them; if there’s famine he will yawl; 
H. C. L. is climbing ever, and he crams that down the throat 
Of the writers, poor old scribblers, who are always made the goat. 

“Profiteering,” Old Man Public shouts in rage, 

“If the jelly-fish-like papers had some spine, 

They would stop it,” and he shakes the daily page. 

When sensations fill the columns, there’s a whine, 

“Yellow, yellow!” cries the public. Then again, 

Should the sheet neglect to use a story grim; 

“It’s afraid to tell the truth,” says Public, then; 

“This newspaper’s run by graft,” he bawls with vim. 

Old Man Public sits in judgment; loud he blames the daily sheet 
If the day is hot or wet, or there’s a sudden drop in wheat; 

If the printed story differs from the gossip, how he gloats; 

Oh, the poor newspaper scribblers! They are always made the goats! 


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If the dear subscriber does not really insist on telling the 
publisher how to run the paper, he often, when the editor is crowd- 
ing out live news for want of space, insists on jumping on some- 
body hard, without signing his name. Old friends, “Pro Bono 
Publico,” “Vox Populi,” “Veritas,” “Subscriber,” “Citizep,” 
“Fair Play,” “Constant Reader,” “Inquirer,” and others, too num- 
erous to mention, have filled many columns of valuable space. 

There are those who do not think that the province of the 
newspaper ends with giving the news and answering all sorts of 
inquisitive questions. Some would use it as a vehicle through 
which to vent their personal spleens. Of course, everybody can not 
agree, by a great deal, as to what the policy of a certain sheet 
should be on any particular question. One man grumbles because 
it defends a certain principle, and the next one thinks it is not 
pronounced enough in the stand it has taken on the same matter. 
One fellow wants to lambast some other one and becomes angry 
because he is not allowed to do so. Another thinks the water com- 
pany, the gas company, or the street railway company, and per- 
haps all three of these public utility companies, should be “roast- 
ed,” while his neighbor is willing to admit that they are serving 
the public well. These are simply examples of thousands of com- 
plaints and criticisms that daily demand the attention of the news- 
paper man, who is certainly supposed, if not always disposed, 
to help to regulate the universe; but who, like the weather man, 
cannot do his work to suit the caprices of unreasonable man. 

The critics are innumerable, and anonymous letter writers are 
ever ready to stab some one in the back through the newspaper. 
One day the Gazette carried a news item about a man who had 
just woke up after having been in a trance for three years. The 
headline read, “An Arkansan wakes up after being asleep for 
three years.” A soldier at Camp Pike, who probably came from 
the north and had imbibed the popular falacy that Arkansas peo- 
ple are a little slow, cut out the item, wrote over the top of it. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


161 


“Thank God, one of ’em woke up,” and sent it in anonymously 
to the editor. 

There are some subscribers whom the fool-killer ought to 
get. For instance, one man wrote: 

“I failed to get my paper last week. Please write me what’s 
in it.” 

Another handed the editor this complimentary package. 

“Please stop by paper at oust. It’s too rotten for pantry 
shelf paper.” 

Here’s a peacherina, in the Josh Billings style of phonetic 
spelling : 

“Lima, Ark., Jan. 1, 1920. 

“Mister editor: Sum tyme in Decembur I prescribed fer 
yure papur — i received 2 kopies, and then yu Discontinoard it 
Without me noin. nuthin erbout it. has it fell thru, or did it dye 
in the elecsun. has the editur been mobbed by the Davis men, 
or what the h — 1 is the mattur withe hime. i wants yer ter suply 
the Missin. numbers or sende me mi munie. Send me a pictur 
of Jeff Davis. 

“As ever yure friende, M. Q. L.” 

The following is from a born humorist: 

“Greenbrier, Ark., Jan. 14, 1920. 

“Ark. Gazette: 

“My dear Old Lady — About three weeks ago, I married you 
for another year, paying three dollars for the license, and nary a 
time have you visited me. Of course, you are a hundred years old, 
but in the prime of your life and usefulness. So, come along, or 
there will be a divorce suit.” E. L. P.” 

Here is a consoling kind of a missive : 

“Stop my paper. I am getting more papers than I can read.” 

He never thinks of stopping some of the others, instead of 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


yours. This kind of an unappreciative cuss generally receives a 
letter suggesting that he discontinue some of the others — the in- 
ferior papers, which he is receiving, and continue to take “the 
State’s leading, oldest and largest, which he is compelled to have 
to keep up with current affairs,” etc., but when a man decides to 
stop his paper, it is hard to convince him of the error of his 
way through correspondence. 

“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these” 
— to the newspaper man — “stop my paper.” 

Here is the word which was received one day from a post- 
master: “Gents: Bill Smith’s paper should be stopped. He is 
dead, and did not leave his forwarding address.” 

And here is a similar one: 

“Daniel Stephenson doesn’t get his paper at this office any 
more. He is dead. Shall I send it to the Dead Letter Office?” 
— P. M.”. 

An appreciative, but moneyless man, sent in this bewhiskered 
chestnut : 

“Don’t stop my paper, printer, 

Don’t strike my name off yet; 

You know that times are close, 

And dollars hard to get.” 

Most newspapers have men out in the field to solicit subscrip- 
tions and straighten out kinks. Such a representative of our paper, 
named Phil McHenry, after years of service, became decrepit from 
rheumatism, but he was lucky to have a spunky wife, who suc- 
cessfully took his place on the road and made a living for the 
family. She won the sympathy of the office, because like “The 
Wife,” in Irving’s Sketchbook — “Nothing can be more touching 
than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weak- 
ness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while 
treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly arise in mental 
force to be comforter and support of her husband under misfor- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


163 


tune, and, abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts 
of adversity.” 

L. S. Dunaway is the envy of all subscription men in the 
southern territory. He has a great spiel or rigmarole, which he 
recites to gain the attention of the victim when he approaches him 
for an order. It goes something like this, with the frills: 

“Let me put you down for the . To make a long tale 

short, it gives you all the general and State news, market reports, 
court decisions, weather predictions, crop prospects, political 
items, personal gossip, war intelligence, baseball and racing 
events, etc. It will keep you posted. What’s your address?” 



Making a Long Tail (Tale) Short. 


“Oh, I don’t want the paper,” the besieged replies, “I 
wouldn’t let my yellow dog sleep on it.” 

“Come, now, you are too prominent a man not to take your 
leading paper. It will tell you all about the high cost of living, 
the Legislature, Congress, the anti-trust law, the North and South 
railroad, boodiing in the Legislature, the State Fair, and every- 
thing you want to know.” 

“No, it ain’t my politics; I ain’t got much time to read, no 
way.” 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


But Dunaway is insistent, and he persists further by telling 
him that he will take the subscription in “chittlings, cheese, wool 
socks, sawdust, prunes, potatoes, persimmons, cordwood, possum- 
hunting, preaching, fishing, foot-racing, money, marbles or chalk.” 

The poor fellow sees that there is no use in resisting; he 
succumbs to the inevitable, and impatiently interrupts the har- 
rangue by handing Dunaway a greasy half dollar, telling him 
to send the paper as long as that will pay for. 

He is then enrolled on the list, and if he ever gets off, it is 
because Dunaway is unable to locate him. It is sometimes nec- 
essary to resort to the popular procedure of getting out an injunc- 
tion to get some papers stopped after you have once subscribed 
for them; but Dunaway says it is not necessary with his paper, as 
the people cannot do without it, and the children cry for it, as 
they are said to do for one of the remedies advertised in its 
columns — Castoria. 

Mr. Dunaway, by the way, like most great men, has a fad. 
It consists of acquiring all sorts of wild animals, and, especially 
peculiar zoological specimens, for a private menagerie which he 
maintains at his home, at Conway. 

One day he procured a rare prize in a young alligator, 
which delighted his heart. Charlie Davis, the alleged poet and 
would-be-humorist of the staff, wrote a news story about it in a 
humorous vein, presuming somewhat on the circulator’s good 
nature. He spoke of him as “Dr. L. Sharpe Dunaway, D. D. 
(Doctor of Dickering),” and vowed that Dunaway had secured 
the alligator by swapping a three-months’ subscripiton to the 
Gazette for it; that he was disappointed in not being able to have 
the postoffice receive it as a parcels post shipment, but that the 
thing that troubled him most was his “inability to decide whether a 
baby ’gator is called a cub, a pup, or a gosling.” 

A later item announced that “Dr.” Dunaway had added a 
“nanny” wolf to his zoo, and that the considerations in the dicker 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


165 


for the specimen were six months’ worth of the daily Gazette and 
three cash dollars, the animal to be delivered f. o. b. Tulsa, Okla., 
and shipped from there to Conway via parcels post.” According 
to Mr. Davis, however, the newspaper-circulator-naturalist discov- 
ered that “passel” post is a poor way to ship a wolf, as “there 
were $3.80 C. 0. D. charges on the original package, and $122.87 
damage claims filed by the various railway postal clerks, express- 
men, news butchers and porters, due and payable when the wolf 
and the fragments of the container arrived.” 

“Within a few days,” continued Mr. Davis, “the Doc. is going 
to put out a curb trading-list — so many Gazettes for so much of 
a certain animal; but if the Doc. doesn’t kick in with that coun- 
try ham he has been promising his biographer every time he 
mooches a nice little write-up in these columns, he is going to get 
no more free puffs.” 

Robert J. Brown, another traveling man, tells of an amusing 
experience with a kindly disposed customer in an inland town. 
Mr. Brown was engaged in the laudable work of writing up the 
town for the paper, and was soliciting subscriptions for extra 
copies. After taking orders for from 100 to 500 copies each from 
a number of persons, he called on the richest man in the town. 
When the project was explained, this gentleman took Brown 
warmly by the hand, and, congratulating him, said: 

“Yes, I am glad you are engaged in this work; we need it, and 
I am glad to help it along. You may put me down for a copy.” 

“How many copies did you say — one hundred.” 

“No, one copy,” replied the gentleman. 

“You don’t mean that you want only one copy?” 

“Yes, that’s all I can read.” 

“Well, but don’t you want to send some away to your friends, 
or to prospective settlers?” 

“I can borrow Jim Jones’ copy to read and send my copy 
out if I can think of anybody to send it to.” 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


And with the utmost seriousness, the best of intentions and 
evident good-will, he slowly and deliberately drew a whole nickel 
from his long jeans pocket and handed it over to the astonished 
newspaper man, apparently thinking that he was doing the proper 
and a generous thing.” 

“Thank you very much,” said Mr. Brown, “if all would come 
up as promptly and as handsomely as you, I would have no 
trouble in getting up enough business to make my work encourag- 
ing to myself and profitable to the paper. Good-day, sir.” 

For a number of years, E. 0. Bagley, an exceptionally bright 
and clever gentleman, who, incidentally, has charge of the Ga- 
zette’s city circulation, has been connected with that paper in 
the capacity of chief punster. He is the most confirmed punster 
I ever knew, and he has become so thoroughly addicted to the bad 
habit of punning that his case seems to be absolutely hopeless. 
Various kinds of treatment have been proposed for him, including 
change of climate, but to no avail. Punning ever goes merrily 
on in his department, and he appears to have no desire to lead a 
better life. Nothing comes up or goes on but what Ed’s ever- 
ready pun is immediately forthcoming. 

If I had the time to do so, and were not so seriously inclined. 
I would write a book on the subject of “Fun in a Printing Office.” 

The hurry and bustle of bringing out a morning paper is ex- 
citing, and occasionally, exasperating. In this connection, here is 
Mr. Bagley’s definition of Chaos, as expressed one day when the 
paper was late in coming from the press: 

“The press is late in starting up. Twenty-five anxious car- 
riers are waiting and clamoring for papers in order that they may 
get through early, and the papers are not forthcoming. Fifty white 
newsboys are begging earnestly for enough papers to supply 
their regular customers. Seventy-five to eighty negro boys are 
yelling at the top of their voices for papers. Everybody is talk- 
ing or swearing at once. Small armfuls of papers are being 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


167 


handed up through the papei chutes, but not rapidly enough 
to supply the demand. The newsboys become more impatient 
and restless, and cannot be made to understand why they cannot 
be supplied at once. It is necessary to ‘fire out’ about forty of 
them, to preserve some kind of order. Anxious subscribers all 
over the city are being told over the ’phones that ‘the paper is a 
little late, but will be there in a few minutes,’ but it is impossible 
to make good the promise when the paper is still in the white roll. 
Six o’clock arrives. White newsboys, black newsboys, belated car- 
riers, and impatient callers for their papers, all waiting, and the 
’phones have to be plugged to assist in quieting confusion. 

“That’s chaos.” 

The newsboy is a character that is worth studying. He is 
often a little, dirty-faced, rag-tailed gutter-snipe, but he goes here, 
there and everywhere. His contact with people makes him alert. 
If he is quick-witted, he learns business methods and gains ex- 
perience that starts him off successfully in the world of trade. 
Many prominent men started as newsboys, and I am told that the 
superintendents of the newsboys in some of he larger cities draw 
salaries as high as $5,000 and $10,000 a year. The selling of 
newspapers has, indeed, become almost a profession. 

One day there blew into the city an itinerant newsboy, named 
Jack Lloyd, who has sold papers on the streets of almost every 
big city, and who follows fairs, the unusual events that are pulled 
off in various parts of the country, and who never misses the open- 
ing of a new oil field. He obtained a contract to organize and, as 
he called it, educate the newsboys. His leather-lunged voice, cry- 
ing the paper, was soon heard all over the city. 

THE KING OF THE NEWSBOYS. 

Jack Lloyd, the newsboy, came to town, 

All smiles and jolly capers; 

Says he, “I yell and act the clown, 

Because it helps sell papers. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


“I'm known all ’round, from coast to coast. 
As Jack, the King of Newsboys, 

And though I never, never boast, 

I can outsell the Jews, boys.” 

So bright and early on the streets, 

While some folks dress by taper, 

With leather-lungs, each man he meets 
He asks to buy a paper. 

He says it takes a lot of noise, 

And likewise some invention, 

To make the kind of paper boys 
That gain the world’s attention. 

“In waking hours,” says he, “I keep 
Dispensing these world-shapers, 

And, when, tired out, I fall asleep, 

To dream I’m selling papers.” 

The timid newsies stand no show 
Against the hustling stranger, 

They are too everlasting slow 
To match this nickel-changer. 

Awake, asleep, he cries aloud, 

“Here is your morning paper,” 

And when he dies he wants a shroud 
Made of a big newspaper.” 

A paper is a little thing 
That sells for but a song, 

Yet Jack’s grown rich, a newsboy king, 
Through pushing it along. 

And if in heaven he cannot sell 
The “Morning Glory” paper, 

He says he’ll leave and go to h — 1, 

With paper men to caper. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

NEWSPAPER BEATS, JOKES AND BLUNDERS. 

rpHE newspaper is not only subject to severe criticism from its 
constituents, but it is a sort of a public football, to be cuffed 
and kicked about. Everybody reads it, and would not do without 
it, but they do not always give it its due, or properly respect the 
feelings of the men who make it. It is public property, and 
subject to be cussed and discussed by all. Some fear it, but if 
they can get it for nothing, impose on it for a free advertisement, 
or play a joke on it, they seem to have no compunctions of con- 
science about doing so. 

Speaking of jokes, one night a “special” was received by 
the Gazette to the effect that, in excavating an old mound near 
Malvern, a lot of wonderful things were unearthed, among them, 
I suppose, a fossil icythyosaurus or two, but especially mention- 
ing an old earthen pot, bearing an inscription which the cor- 
respondent said was Latin. The item appeared to be genuine, 
’though the pretended inscription did look like “hog Latin,” and, 
with appropriate head-lines, was printed in a prominent place on 
the first page. In a day or two the office began to hear from it. 
It developed that a practical joker, who is supposed to have been 
a railroad man named Doty, had put up a job on the telegraph 
editor, who bit like an easy mark. Attention was called to the 
fact that a proper arrangement of the letters in the ingeniously pre- 
tended inscription spelled a line in English which rendered it a 
horrible thing to print in a respectable newspaper. Presumably, 
the hoaxer had posted some of his friends, who passed the word 
around, for hardly could anybody have figured out the proper 
solution of the wording by casually reading the story, when it 
had passed the eagle eye of the telegraph editor. The story 
traveled to Little Rock and all over the State. It caused a deal 


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of merriment among the vulgar-minded, at the paper’s expense. 
Other papers have been imposed upon by similar fakes. 

I am reminded by the foregoing of a joke which was cruelly 
perpetrated on our “reptilian contemporary” (the epithet is used 
in a kindly spirit, as that was the affectionate manner in which 
the editor of that paper referred to his newspaper brethren). 
That paper reduced its price on the street from five to two cents 
the copy, and was doing a great deal of blowing about it. Be- 
sides hiring imported newsboys to shout the fact through mega- 
phones, it printed two columns of interviews each day, full of 
gushing praise for self-styled enterprise and liberality. A well 
known wag, who had become tired of reading these testimonials, 
sent the publisher a pretended boost in the form of verse, arranged 
as an acrostic, commending the paper fulsomely, but the first let- 
ter of each line, when read from top to bottom, contradicted the 
remainder of it, as it read, “THESE ARE DAM LIES.” The 
acrostic was loaded, so to speak, but the Democrat people fell for 
the snare, as it was printed in a preferred position. Manager 
Mitchell, who was seldom caught napping, is reported to have said, 
when he sent it back to the composing room, that it was rotten 
poetry, but the spirit of it was all right. Yet there was that little 
venom hidden in the package of sweet compliments. The Demo- 
crat printed no more testimonials. 

I am also reminded of two jokes which the same paper 
played on itself. A circus was billed to show its mammoth aggre- 
gation of wonders in Little Rock on a certain autumnal day, when 
cotton was beginning to come in and money was plentiful. The 
Democrat had put in type and printed the usual elaborate write- 
up of the parade which the show had advertised to give at noon 
before the afternoon of the appearance of that day’s issue of the 
paper. In the case of circuses, the gentlemanly and accommo- 
dating press representatives furnish printed notices in advance. 
This saves the paper trouble, and the show people are compen- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


171 


sated by receiving a better notice than would be obtained if the 
paper were left to write what it chose. The notice of the parade 
read nicely, and probably would have been as truthful as most 
descriptions of circus parades are, but in this instance the circus 
train had been derailed and delayed en route, and no parade or 
exhibition took place on that day. Therefore, the Democrat was 
put in a hole. 

The editor of the Gazette took advantage of the situation to 
poke a little fun at the afternoon paper. He did it in excellent 
style, quoting amusingly some of the extravagant language applied 
to the spectacle, which, he wrote, paraded only through the 
columns of the Democrat — “the big elephants shuffling along, 
holding each other’s tails, as cutely as could be.” The incident 
naturally occasioned laughter. 

The other incident occurred when the Democrat, uninten- 
tionally, printed the President’s message to Congress before it 
was released — and one day before it was delivered. (The Presi- 
dent’s message and other public documents of general interest, 
as most people know, are usually furnished to newspapers in 
advance, to be released by wire.) The Democrat got in a “scoop” 
on" every other newspaper in the country, and was doubtless 
thought to be very enterprising by some of its readers, but the mis- 
take obliged it to pay a heavy fine to the Associated Press for 
the violation of the confidence reposed in it when the printed 
copy was furnished, and the owners had to call on President 
Roosevelt to exonerate them, in order to save their press privilege. 

In the year 1911 the Heiskells and I bought the above- 
mentioned Democrat, and we played with it for two years, when 
we sold it to its present owners. The editor during that time was 
my friend, Clio Harper. I occasionally tried my hand at writing 
editorial paragraphs for him, and that bad habit got me into 
trouble one day. I wrote an editorial in regard to a public ques- 
tion which Harper printed. It caused an investigation by the 


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Grand Jury, which demanded the name of its author. I was con- 
nected with another paper, and it would have been extremely 
embarrassing to me to have had to acknowledge and take the 
responsibility for the article. Mr. Harper saved me from the 
exposure. 

One night a well known gentlemen called at the office with 
another person whom he introduced as John McCormack, the 
famous tenor. The stranger resembled McCormack. He was 
somewhat under the influence of liquor. Upon being asked what 
he was doing in that part of the country, he replied that he was 
motoring to Hot Springs, where he was to be joined by his wife, 
who was traveling by railroad, and that he had stopped off at 
Little Rock for a day. His sponsor whispered to a reporter that 
Mr. McCormack was traveling incognito; but the presence of such 
a celebrity was too important to be passed over lightly. He was 
induced to sing a song, and he sang one of McCormack’s favorites, 
entitled “Until,” in a magnificent voice. Having been introduced 
by a well-known citizen, and speaking glibly of matters so well 
known in connection with the star whom he impersonated, his 
identity was not questioned. Many other notables had visited the 
city, and there was no reason why Mr. McCormack should not 
do so. A stock cut of McCormack was taken out of the morgue, 
and an interview with the singer accompanied it in the next issue. 

“Genial John McCormack, internationally famous tenor, who 
has been in Little Rock for the past two days,” said the news item, 
“will be joined today by Mrs. McCormack and will proceed to Hot 
Springs, where he will spend a few weeks. 

“Although traveling incognito, Mr. McCormack has been 
recognized many times during his brief stay in Little Rock, and 
last night, in the Gazette office, at the insistent request of friends 
and admirers, he sang his favorite song, ‘Until.’ 

“Mr. McCormack came to Little Rock from Columbus, Ga., 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


173 


by automobile, and will continue his journey to Hot Springs when 
joined by his wife.” 

The next morning the city was agog over the supposed visit 
of the distinguished Irishman. But, it was discovered by the aft- 
ernoon newspaper that the man was an imposter. John McCor- 
mack was enjoying himself at his country home near Norton, Conn. 

“Even the blase ears of the sage denizens of a morning news- 
paper office are not impervious to the hypnotic spell of music — 
the pastime of the gods,” commented the afternoon paper, and 
continuing, said: “Possibly the hot, stuffy night had something 
to do with it, but be that as it may, the sweet clear notes of ‘Until,’ 
sung late Friday night or early Saturday morning by a convivial 
stranger, produced a strange and complete hallucination upon the 
entire staff of the morning paper, reputed to be a staid and con- 
servative publication. So vivid was the hypnotic effect produced 
that readers at the breakfast table over their coffee were amazed 
and delighted to learn that John McCormack, the internationally 
famous tenor, whom presidents and kings are proud to rank as 
their friend, was a visitor, and had honored the fagged and weary 
editorial staff with a delightful little private recital.” 

The feeling between the makers of rival newspapers at times 
becomes intense. When another Sunday newspaper came to com- 
pete with the Gazette, with its second issue, a newsboy woke up 
one of the owners and editors of the Gazette by singing on his 
doorstop an obnoxious song, extolling the merits of the other 
paper. The newspaper man naturally supposed that the publisher 
of the other paper intended to annoy him, and he was severe in his 
denunciation of him for it, but it developed that the rival paper 
had nothing to do with it; a friend had put up a job on him, by 
paying the newsboy to sing the song, which he wrote for him. 

Newspaper controversies, like disputes among individuals, 
will bob up. I have seen many scraps of this kind, and some of 
them have been highly amusing. 


174 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


THE GREAT WAR 

Between the Hoc-Wash Journal and the Scandal-Monger’s Tribune 

Two editors, with fiery eyes, 

Were at each other glaring; 

They penned indictments and defies 

Like diplomats preparing n 

Their people for a war with swords 
That might disrupt the nation, , 

Instead of one of harmless words, 

Provoked by emulation. 

Impersonal though it outstands, 

A paper’s made by human hands. 

One made a thrust that struck with awe 
His proud contemporary; 

A quick retort stuck in the craw 
Of his hot adversary: — 

“Yours is a filthy hog-wash sheet” — I 

Affirmed one irate daily. 

“And yours a scandal-monging cheat,” 

Replied the other, gayly. 

War formally was then declared, 

And for grim battle each prepared. 

One side discharged a fusillade 
Of little paper bullets, 

Which drew a furious cannonade 

That scared the neighbors’ pullets; 

The sky took on a lurid cast, 

As fiercer grew the fighting. 

And every editorial blast 

Made things still more exciting. 

It seemed the devil was to pay 
In this deplorable affray. 

With typical and rapt delight 
Each publisher’s disciples 
Encouraged this black, inky fight, 

All brought about by trifles; 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


175 


With “sick ’em, Lige,” they egged them on 
To use assaults more bitter; 

Although tired of it, neither one 
Liked to be called a quitter. 

The editor, like women, must, 

The last word have, or simply bust. 

They used up every naughty word 
In Webster’s Dictionary, 

When both concluded it absurd, 

If not illusionary, 

To wage a bloodless war like this, 

For other folks’ diversion, 

So they made up, and with a kiss, 

Each took back all aspersion. 

Now all is lovely and serene 

Around this journalistic scene. 

On December 25, 1921, a number of daily newspapers print- 
ed, together with the pictures of the principals, an unusual story, 
which was rather too good to be true. It was to the effect that 
“James W. Hathaway” of Boston had married Miss Louise Aecht- 
ler, of Somerville, Mass., and that the couple had lived as man 
and wife in a lodging house for two weeks, the “wife” never learn- 
ing that her husband was a woman until “he” was about to be 
arrested on a larceny charge, when “he” resisted being taken into 
custody, and exclaimed to the policeman, “Would you strike a 
woman?” An investigation proved that the “husband” really 
was a female. 

Some time in 1897, there appeared in the Gazette an article 
and picture which startled, or, at least, was enough to startle, the 
entire world of scientists, naturalists and zoologists. This was 
Elbert Smithee’s Gowroy story, illustrated by Elmer Burrus, an 
expert chalk-plate artist, who was then illustrating the daily issues 
of the paper, carricaturing the legislative members, and otherwise 
livening up things with his celebrated specimens of high art. 


176 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


(This was before the present newspaper half-tones came into use). 
Elbert, a talented writer, had a commercial traveling friend, 
named William Miller, who had been in the wild and woolly re- 
gions of Northwest Arkansas. Miller brought back with him the 
tail — no, the tale — of a wonderful animal which he said had 
been killed up there. It was like unto nothing that had ever been 
seen on land or in sea before. He and Elbert talked about it — 
over a lemonade. Elbert went out with the boys that night, and, 
after taking another lemonade or soda and smoking a cigar, wrote 
up the yarn, drawing profusely on a vivid imagination, warmed 
and enlivened with good fellowship, to develop any material or 



Elbert Smilhee’s Gowrow. 


immaterial point necessary to embellish it. Then he and the 
artist got together, and the aforesaid picturegraphist also became 
enthused over the alleged discovery. The result was that the 
combined geniuses of the Munchausen-like commercial tourist, 
the imaginative editor, and the talented artist, inspired by the 
best at Garibaldi’s bar, evolved the picture represented by the ac- 
companying crude illustration and a story which read like a fairy 
tale. The wonderful animal was denominated the Gowrow, be- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


177 


cause it was said to utter a cry sounding like the name when en- 
gaged in its terrible work of exterminating whatever live object 
came across its path. Miller was supposed to have been in 
Blanco, Calf Creek township, Searcy County, Arkansas, when this 
horrible monster was nightly slaughtering cattle, horses, hogs, 
dogs and cats by the wholesale. It had terrorized the community, 
for those who had seen the ponderous animal were horrified by its 
hideous shape. Miller organized a posse, armed with shotguns 
and Winchesters. The tracks of the Gowrow were followed until 
an enormous cave was found, near a lake. This cave was evi- 
dently the home of the animal, as here were found many skele- 
tons, skulls and bones, as well as parts of human flesh of recent 
victims; but the monster had not returned to its lair. Miller and 
his posse laid in wait, while trembling in their shoes. Presently 
the earth swayed as if another San Francisco earthquake were 
taking place. The waters of the lake began to splash and roar 
with a noise like the movement of ocean waves, when they realized 
that the monster was approaching. As it came within range, all 
hands fired, and, after several volleys were discharged, succeeded 
in killing it. But it died hard. A couple of huge trees on the 
bank were lashed down and one of the assailants was killed by it 
before it breathed its last. 

It was stated that the Gowrow was twenty feet in length, had 
a ponderous head, with two enormous tusks. Its legs were short, 
terminating in web feet, similar to, but much larger than, those of 
a duck, and each toe had vicious claws. The body was covered 
with green scales, and its back bristled with short horns. Its tail 
was thin and long, and was provided with sharp, bladelike forma- 
tions at the end, which it used as a sickle. 

It was declared that this animal was a pachyderm, and a com- 
bination of the hyaenidae and rhinocerotidae ; that it had incisor 
and canine teeth, which apparently showed its relationship to the 


178 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


ceratorhinus genus, supposed long since to have disappeared from 
the earth. (Its discoverer was a “peacherina.”) 

The bones were to be sent to the Smithsonian Institution, but, 
strange to say, they have never reached there. 

It was a great fake, probably without foundation in fact. 

The rivalry among newspapers produces some funny situa- 
tions. A few years ago there was an old blind darkey, named Ben 
Suggs, who sold papers on the streets of Little Rock. He had a 
powerful voice and cried his wares as loudly as he could. One 
evening when he was selling the Evening Democrat, some of the 
boys told him that he did not pronounce the name right; that it 
was “Evening Demagog.” He believed them, and went up and 
down the street shouting at the top of his voice, “Here’s yo’ Enen’ 
Demagogue, five cents.” The next morning he was hallooing 
^Mornin’ Gazoot — all about nothin’.” The Democrat boys had 
retaliated. 

All remembrance of rivalry was obliterated some time after 
this, when the plant of the Democrat was wiped out by fire, and 
the Gazette came to its assistance by printing its paper until a 
new outfit could be installed. 

Newspaper language embraces many colloquial terms which 
are capable of misconstruction. George W. Gunder once wrote 
up a certain county official in supposed complimentary terms 
for the paper. Among other things he said that the officer was 
^‘forging ahead rapidly.” The subject of the sketch came into the 
office, all “het up,” and wanted to “lick” the man who wrote the 
item. He declared that some of his constituents, when they read 
it, were aroused and set about an inquiry; they said if he were a 
forger, they would see that he was promptly ousted from office 
and sent to jail; they would not have a forger representing them. 

Typographical errors, slips of the pencil which the proof- 
reader fails to catch, and mix-ups in the forms, are likewise the 
cause of trouble in a newspaper office. A “personal” was handed 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


179 


in one day, in which it was stated that Mrs. So and So, had sailed 
for Germany, and that her friends would be sorry to hear of her 
departure. When printed it read “her many friends will be sorry 
to hear of her demise .” 

Another personal item about “Mrs. F razee Jones” came out 
as “Mrs. Crazee Jones.” 

A national bank statement had been sent to the paper for pub- 
lication. A reporter was requested to make a local notice about it. 
He referred in complimentary language to the large deposits car- 
ried by the bank, and ended the notice by saying that, by a peculiar 
coincidence , the assets and liabilities balanced to a cent, and the 
notice was so printed, to the consternation of the bank officials. 

You know, the intelligent compositor usually follows copy, 
if it goes out of the window. One day a country correspondent 
sent in an item which had to be rewritten. The news editor wrote 
at the bottom of the copy, for the managing editor, “tell this man 
to learn how to write.” The printer set up the comment and 
the note appeared in the paper at the foot of the item. 

Once the foreman got the before-and-after-taking cuts mixed 
in a quack doctor’s advertisement. The patient was shown as 
having a perfect nose before he went to the specialist, and after 
treatment his nose was represented as being eaten off. It might 
have been nearer the truth than was intended at that, but the 
blunder almost caused a damage suit. 

Like all daily newspapers, the Gazette maintains correspond- 
ents in every town of importance in the State. In the smaller 
places, instead of paying the reporters cash for their services, a 
copy of the paper is sent to them. Most of those correspondents 
are of course inexperienced, and some of them care little about 
the authenticity of the matter they send in. Many of them are 
uneducated, and write a half column about an item which could 
be told in a dozen words, while on the other hand a really impor- 
tant item will be slighted. 


180 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


A man lately sent in an account of the supposed wedding of 
two prominent young people in a certain town; but no such wed- 
ding had occurred. It was sent in as a hoax on the couple. It 
was printed and caused a disturbance. It was a far worse prank 
on the paper than on the young people. The name of the in- 
formant was demanded, he was horsewhipped by relatives of the 
girl, and a damage suit was narrowly averted by the paper. 

Frequently items have been sent in announcing the birth of a 
son or daughter to Mr. and Mrs. So and So, as pranks, by people 
who little realized the seriousness of the predicament in which it 
placed the paper, when it was found that the stork had not made 
the reported visits. These items now have to come through the 
city physician or from a reliable correspondent. 

One day a cut of a bank in an advertisement got dislodged 
from its base in stereotyping a page, and consequently the illus- 
tration was printed out of alignment in such a way as to show 
the building leaning to one side. It gave the reader the impression 
that the institution was not on the level, or was about to fall, which 
had a particular significance in connection with a financial con- 
cern. As usual, the worst possible construction was put on the ac- 
cident, and a damage suit was threatened. The bank was laughed 
into good humor by the sending over of the whole advertising 
crew in a body, the spokesman announcing that the men had been 
sent over by the printing office to prop up the tottering walls of 
the building, or cure the bank of the blind-staggers. 

The mistakes of the types probably cause more amusement on 
the inside than on the outside of the newspaper offices. 




CHAPTER XXIV. 


LIBEL AND DAMAGE SUITS— THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE 
AN INTELLIGENCE BUREAU. 

A NEWSPAPER does not deserve the name until it has experi- 
enced the luxury and distinction of defending a few first-class 
libel and damage suits. 

I knew a man who sued a newspaper through an attorney 
for $10,000 damages for alleged defamation of character, and it 
cost the newspaper a thousand dollars to defend the suit, but 
before it could be decided in court, it was ended by the man being 
hanged for the crime which the paper had written up, and of which 
he pretended to be innocent. 

Another sued for $5,000 for fancied misrepresentation, but 
dismissed the suit upon receiving a retraction through the paper. 

In a third case the litigant accepted a check for $25 in full 
settlement for a claim for $10,000, when in his complaint filed 
in court he averred that the article on account of which the suit 
was filed was false in every particular, and that every sentence in 
it contained an untruth which libelled him and was intended, with 
malice aforethought, to injure him; that it caused him loss of 
time and lack of employment; that it made him appear ridiculous 
and contemptible in the sight of good people; that the defendant 
company had malignantly and purposely pursued him and held 
him up to scorn ; without any cause or excuse, and to his detriment 
in the large sum named; wherefore he prayed judgment against 
the paper for the said sum, and for all costs in the action at law 
and other proper relief. 

Pettifogging lawyers are responsible for inducing people to 
bring more than half the damage suits which annoy newspapers. 
Some lawyers make their living by suggesting and working up 
such suits. They encourage clients to sue for large amounts, 


182 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


because if a verdict is obtained in their favor, the jury is liable 
to reduce the amount, and the lawyer usually receives one-half 
of the amount, as a contingent fee. In the case referred to, fifty 
per cent of the $25 went to the lawyer. 

On account of the printing of the name of the wrong woman, 
through the mistake of a reporter, in a scandalous story, a check 
for $1,500 was promptly paid to the injured person. 

The people who would punish their enemies through the 
vehicle of the newspaper are numerous, and the papers receive 
more dark hints of other people’s misdeeds, real or imaginary, 
than come before the Grand Juries, but usually these things come 
to the editor anonymously. People do not understand that rumor 
cannot be printed with impunity. 

Almost daily cards reflecting on someone are offered for 
publication. Some of them contain epithets of such a character 
that the party referred to would have just cause for an action if 
they were printed. The erroneous idea is prevalent that if a 
party signs his name to the offensive article and pays for its pub- 
lication, he alone is responsible for it. They overlook the fact 
that it is not only the making of the statement, but the circulation 
of it, — or the uttering of it, as the attorneys say, which constitutes 
the libel. 

Among its many useful purposes, the average newspaper 
office serves as a general intelligence bureau. Not only are its 
bulletin boards eagerly scanned, but everybody applies there when 
information is wanted or a dispute is to be settled. Some of the 
queries fired in by telephone or asked over the counter are truly 
amusing. Here are some specimens of common questions: 

“What is the baseball score?” 

“Is there any premium on an 1894 dollar?” 

“What is the weight of Dempsey, the pug?” 

“How should the president be addressed?” 

“Where’s the fire?” 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


183 


“What was the vote in the last election?” 

“How old was Mary Ann?” 

“Who wrote Virginius?” 

“On what day of the week did January 1, 1903, fall?” 
“What time does the train go to Pine Bluff?” 

Here is a little joke which resulted from the proneness of 
people to ask questions of the editor, over the telephone: 

“Is that the editor?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can you tell me who won the Kentucky Derby?” 

“Colonial Girl.” 

“Who was second?” 

“Hermis.” 

“Who ran third?” 

“Don’t know.” 

“Don’t Know ran third, eh? Didn’t know he was entered.” 



A General Intelligence Bureau. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE LADIES AND THE NEWSPAPER. 


T MUST not forget to pay my respects to the better half of human 
**■ creation. The ladies are valued patrons of the newspaper, 
many of them swear by their favorite paper, figuratively speaking, 
and this truthful history, with no reference to their acknowledged 
merits and surpassing charms would be as incomplete as a concert 
without music, or a feast without a dessert. The world — the news- 
paper world, if you please, — without them, would be like a day 
without its sun, and a bird without its song. God bless the ladies 1 
They are the most assiduous readers of the department store and 
other ads, which makes business for the papers. Eighty per cent 
of the store ads are designed for them, for as a rule they expend 
the family budget. 

The gentle sex also furnishes the gossip and the social side 
which adds spice to the otherwise dull life of the newspaper and 
every other sphere. The women are mostly a source of pleasure, 
though sometimes a cause of worry, to the newspaper man. I 
would not disparage womankind one iota, for I am its friend, in 
spite of the fact that some women occasionally become possessed 
with the idea that the public print is conducted for their special 
and sole benefit. 

The ladies are naturally social creatures; they like to see their 
pictures in the society columns, and Miss Smith and Mrs. Brown 
largely depend on the newspaper to assist in making their func- 
tions successful, by notices announcing the affairs beforehand, 
and complimentary mention afterward. The paper wants these 
items. But, in some cases, woe unto the poor newspaper man, or 
society editress, if a tiny error creeps into the write-up. Or, if 
something has been omitted, it is difficult to persuade milady 
that it was not an intentional slight. Then, the foreman or the 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 185 

make-up man may have placed the notice in an obscure place, by 
accident, or because it happened to fit in there, and thus a deadly 
offense has been committed, as of by base design. In a case like 
this, sometimes the ’phone rings, and the person who answers the 
call gets politely blessed out, or the circulation man receives an 
order to “stop my paper,” as a result. The complaint will not 
always be registered at once, but the fair lady nurses her resent- 
ment, as she would a sick kitten, until the psychological moment 
arrives, when, with a burst of long-pent wrath, the arch crime is 
divulged. Sooner or later, the full punishment is meted out. 
A woman, amiable in all other respects, can become quite revenge- 
ful in regard to these little matters. “I think the paper is right 
hateful,” one will say; and another remarks, “It is real stingy with 
its old notices,” or “that paper never gets anything right.” 

There is always some worthy charity or “cause that lacks 
assistance,” which certain ladies consider their bounden duty to 
give attention to. They may expect to pay for the rent of the hall, 
for the refreshments, the programs, and everything else connected 
with a charitable entertainment, except the advertising, without 
which it could hardly be got before the public, and would there- 
fore be a failure. They think a column or two of notices in the 
paper cost nothing. They seldom understand why a newspaper 
cannot always afford to devote all the space desired to puff a 
worthy enterprise, to the exclusion of news and everything else. 
They forget that advertising is the chief stock in trade of the news- 
paper. But, after all, perhaps this is a natural mistake, and they 
should not be blamed. 

Advertisements of church entertainments, although in them- 
selves commendable affairs, are looked at askant by advertising 
men, because one never feels like charging for such advertisements. 
You cannot afford to give all of them free, and if you charge for 
one of them, you are perhaps considered the meanest, coldest- 
hearted white man alive. You’d likely rob your grandmother. 


186 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


THE VAGARIES OF CHARITY. 

Milady, smartly dressed, — 

Fine car, — and all the rest, 

Goes to the Charity Ball, 

Which she promotes this fall. 

0, Charity, Sweet Charity! 

She knits for the Red Cross, 

And gives with careless toss; 

She leads in singing psalms, 

As well as giving alms. 

0, Charity, Sweet Charity! 

She spends great sums on gowns, 

While on her children frowns, 

And portions for a mouse 
Doles servants of the house. 

0, Charity, Sweet Charity! 

She gives, the people say, 

Through penchant for display — 

Its printed in the press, 

With name and street address. 

0, Charity, Sweet Charity! 

What vagaries we cherish, 

The while poor mortals perish; 

What sins we do commit 
For your sweet benefit. 

0, Charity, Sweet Charity! 

The accomplished lady musician, the charming elocutionist, 
the aspiring amateur actress, and the talented artist, all like to 
have the press sound their praises ; and they often adopt the most 
ingenious methods of gaining the recognition of the pencil-shover. 
They will smile on him bewitchingly, fawn upon him kindly, 
appeal to him feelingly, and be sure to make him feel distressed 
if he does not write them up complimentarily. He is horrid if he 
fails to respond with the coveted flattery. 

But, when a great wrong has been done in the community. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


187 


when there is a call for someone to perform a work of self-sacri- 
fice, when something worth while deserves commendation, it is 
the noble heart of womanhood which makes the first response. 
Nobody knows this better than the newspaper man. And the 
American woman is queen of the earth. 

Reigning without crown or sceptre, 

With her wit she matches art; 

With her smile she melts the sternest, 

With her tact wins every heart. 

She went to France as a Red Cross nurse, and otherwise 
served her country during the war. She who stayed at home knit 
for the soldier’s kit, or otherwise performed her duty. She stood 
up for the men who fought, and in many ways performed her 
part in assisting to win the victory. 

Occasionally the newspaper man’s heart is made glad by 
some fair creature with heavenly ways. A bunch of flowers, or 
a dainty, is bestowed upon him, and thus a ray of sunshine is 
flashed across his path. I remember one fair creature who visited 
the office every once and awhile, to bring personal items and to 
pay the family subscription, her visits always being a source of 
pleasure. If my affections had not already been engaged, she 
might have had my heart and my anticipated fortune for the 
asking. 

A SUNBEAM FLOODS THE OFFICE. 

She glided through the counting-room, 

With air of ripe matureness, 

Though in her face was youthful bloom 
And delicate demureness. 

^ The patter of her white-clad feet 

Made music with its lightness; 

Her deep blue eyes when yours they’d meet 
Were dazzling with their brightness. 

The darkest corner of the place 

This human sunbeam lightened, 


188 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


Because she carried in her face 

A joy which all things brightened. 

She left not only impress clear 
Of maiden grace and gladness, 

But a paid subscription for a year, 

To cure the printer’s sadness. 

There are also fine women engaged in the newspaper business. 
There are several of them on the Gazette staff, who are better 
workers, more intelligent and more faithful than the men. I will 
trust a woman in preference to a man, any time. 

There are several able women publishers in Arkansas. One 
of them recently sold her paper and retired to the home — 

THE CALL OF THE HOME. 

There was a pretty editress, 

Who pushed a facile pen; 

In news work she achieved success 
Surprising to mere men; 

But as she wrote there came desire 
To bake a cherry pie, — 

To sit and crochet by the fire, — 

Which made her heave a sigh. 

The call of home became too strong 
For woman to resist; 

She sold her paper for a song 
To her antagonist; 

Then gratified her heart’s desire 
With matrons smart to vie 

In knitting by the cheerful fire, 

Or making cherry pie. 

’Tis fine to be an editress, 

And help sway human minds; 

But in her deepest heart’s recess 
A greater call she finds; 

The mother love in woman’s life 
Tugs at her gentle heart, 

And sweeter words than “home” and “wife” 

To her no tongues impart. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE HEISKELL FAMILY— THE IDIOSYNCRASIES OF THE 
NECESSARY OFFICE BOY. 

HPHE most important change in the history of the newspaper with 
A which I am connected occurred in June, 1902, when a con- 
trolling interest in the property passed from W. B. Worthen to 
C. W., J. N. and Fred Heiskell and myself. The Heiskell brothers, 
J. N. and Fred, have impressed the newspaper world with the fact 
that they are two of the most brainy and conscientious journalists 
in the South. 

My business relations with these gentlemen have been pleasant 
and profitable. For twenty years we have worked together, and 
handled the different departments of the newspaper, each pursu- 
ing his own line of endeavor, without a single disagreement or the 
semblance of an angry word. 

J. N. Heiskell is a worthy successor to W. E. Woodruff and 
the long list of illustrious editors who have edited the Arkansas 
Gazette. While a newspaper is partly conducted to make money, 
the first consideration with him is to make a meritorious news- 
paper, and no amount of patronage could swerve him one way 
or the other. * ~* ,»**»•**! I fry 

Fred Heiskell is a number-one news man, a brilliant, wholc-- 
souled fellow, who wins the hearts of all with whom he comes in 
contact. But he is thoroughly impregnated with the heretical idea; 
that the editorial department is that part of the newspaper dog 
which wags the tail. He would think nothing at any time of leav- 
ing out a good cash-earning advertisement of general interest to 
the public, in order to get in an unimportant news item. Many’s 
the spat he has had with the poor foreman over such a case, or 
because he insisted on squeezing one hundred columns of news in 
fifty columns of available space on crowded nights. 


190 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


This lovable gentleman likes to tell everybody that he has 
to work himself almost to death in keeping the Gazette going, in 
order to support his brother and me in idleness; but I notice that 
he continues to wax handsomer, fatter and lazier every year, and 
I fear that if he had to do a real day’s work, such as is required 
in the business office, it would kill him deader than Hector. 

Fred Heiskell has made an enviable reputation as a humorist, 
through his “All Over Arkansas” column. His quips at the foibles 
of the day, his “A Thought for Today,” and his epigramitic com- 
ment on extracts from the community exchanges has furnished 
many a hearty laugh. 

The office boy is an important cog in a newspaper office. 
The following sketch, which was entitled “Wanted, An Office Boy,” 
is quoted because it describes better than I could do an interesting 
type which could not well be omitted from a description of a 
newspaper office, and for the additional reason that it is an up- 
roariously funny specimen in Fred Heiskell’s best vein: 

“Dealing with these boys from a broad viewpoint, all were the same. 
Some had more freckles than others, some were taller, some were fatter, but 
all smoked cigarettes and cigars and eke the boss’ pipe when he was absent, 
all were pert and also pugnacious and all swore like sailors, which last grated 
harshly on the unaccustomed ears of the young men who work while you 
sleep and give you each morning the news of your city, your State, your 
county and strange lands beyond the seas. 

“Still, what may one expect of a lad who is forced to turn night into 
day, to hold his own against armies of hostile Postal and Western Union 
messenger boys, to sit in the office when the police reporter tells the office 
over the phone that there is a murder in this street or a suicide in that or 
when there is a big fire early in the morning just before the last form is 
closed, and every available man is hurried out to handle the story in as few 
words as possible? True, those men are working, but they get to see the 
dead and talk to the murderer and watch the fire and hear the firemen yell, 
don’t they? They don’t have to stay in the office and carry ‘copy’ back to 
the composing room, where galley boys slosh benzine and daub ink and jeer 
at editorial room office boys. They don’t have to run errands and be 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


191 


‘kidded’ by reporters and roasted just because they try to catch a wink of 
sleep at the busiest time on election night. 

“One, a few minutes after his first night’s work had begun, was started 
to a nearby tobacconist with a quarter of a dollar belonging to a reporter 
and an order to purchase one of the peculiarly offensive pieces of Chinese 
punk which that reporter smokes. That careless little office boy forgot to 
return or to send back the piece of punk or the quarter or even a word 
of farewell. 

“Another lad was started to the post-office for mail two hours after he 
came to work, for the first time. It was summer. The soft, silvery light 
from the pale moon sifted through the heavy foliage in the post-office yard, 
painting delicate traceries on the granolith walks (oh, very well, Amelie 
Rives), and on the upturned face of that cute little office boy. For he laid 
himself down there and slept — dreaming with the mail in his tightly-clenched 
hand, guarding his sacred trust even in his sleep. 

“Looking down the dreary vista, peopled with office boys who have been 
with us, one stands out in bold relief. That one is Payne. He could lick 
any messenger boy in the city; he could answer the telephone without hurt- 
ing the feelings of the person at the other end; he could deliver a message 
as it was given to him; he could stay awake — generally he could; in fact 
he was a star. Here’s to you, Payne. You’ve got the makings, and we’ll 
hear from you when you’re grown — those of us that are here to hear. 

“Then, there was Muggsy. He wasn’t anybody’s American Beauty, for 
his nose had been broken and his mouth was large, but he was an entire 
three-ringed circus. And a literary man, too, was Muggsy. He knew the 
life-story of Jesse James and all the other bandits, the pedigree of all the 
baseball celebrities and the fighting weight of all the pugilists. Muggsy 
hired himself to the office. He was a messenger boy in the days when the 
man who hired them had his dinner sent in to him every evening. Muggsy 
arrived one evening at mealtime and seemed to be waiting for something. 
He was asked if he had a telegram for the office and he cheerily answered 
no. He was asked what he wanted and he candidly answered, ‘Some of that 
supper.’ He got it and each evening thereafter he was present just after 
grace had been said, and stayed until after nuts. One evening he announced 
that he had decided to go to work as editorial room office boy. 

“After Muggsy many came, won the undying enmity of the editorial 
room force and left, some of them hurriedly with some of the office furniture 
following them to the door; some silently and calmly, without so much as 
telling us about it. Then one bright day the quizzical Mr. Dugan, the 
quaint comedian of Buttermilk Hill, was signed. The fact is, Mr. Dugan 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


did not live on or near Buttermilk Hill, and when some one first made the 
statement that his habitat was there, he denied it, but when the office force? 
insisted on making the statement, he cheerily admitted that he lived there. 
Mr. Dugan was a philosopher as well as a comedian. He was the Sol Smith 
Russell of the office boys, and his comedy was not of the slap-stick variety. 
It was clean and clear cut. 

“One Christmas night Mr. Dugan (he was always so addressed by the 
office force, because of his solemn manner) induced a friendly printer to 
set up, in bold type, the following placard: 

“I am blinder than a bat. 

“Please help me. 

“Pinning the sign to the front of his coat, he moved slowly about the 
office with his eyes shut, presenting his hat to each man there. It netted 
him $6.85. 

“At midnight some of the office force ordered a bounteous supper, and 
Mr. Dugan was invited to ‘sit in.’ He sat and did ample justice to the meal. 
When it was finished the cigars were passed and Mr. Dugan took one. He 
lighted it, leaned back in his chair, placed his feet on the table, jangled the 
coins in his pocket and remarked, “I’d give $14.00 for the feelin’s of a 
poor man.’ ” 

There was another office boy — one who deserved immortality. 
He was the only perfect office boy , but he was too good to last 

THE ONLY PERFECT OFFICE BOY. 

Ned was freckled, had red hair, 

Which, if ever combed, was rare, 

And his wizened face would almost stop a clock; 

He was lanky and unkempt, 

But would any task attempt, 

And he was a cub unique in Little Rock. 

He became the office pride, 

On whom all the force relied, 

And so handy that he was a constant joy ; 

With a smile upon his face, 

He was always in his place, 

For he was the long-sought perfect office boy. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


193 


Glad the editors, in truth, 

To present this perfect youth, 

But that morning he was home and sick in bed; 
Baffled folks began to grin, 

Thinking it a trick, but in 

A few short hours the office paragon was dead. 

Folks grinned more, and winked, and cried: 

So your perfect boy has died? 

“It is true, too true!” the office workers said, 
“This the only flaw or crime 
Ned, the perfect, left to time, 

That he spoiled our rep. for truth by being dead. 




CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE EFFECT OF THE WAR ON THE NEWSPAPER BUSINESS 
—THE H. C. P. 

rpHE war with Germany revolutionized the newspaper business 

as well as almost everything else in the world, and many a 
time have I blessed the Kaiser, — over the left, — for the trouble he 
has caused me. This tyrant always had a good opinion of him- 
self, and believed he could do bigger things than anybody else. 
He did not profit by it, but the last time he set his war-dogs loose, 
he raised more fuss than ever occurred on earth before, and if he 
calculated on turning everything upside down, he made a success 
of the job in that respect. 

The war augmented circulation, and boosted advertising, but 
it increased the cost and the worry in greater proportions. Print 
paper soared in cost. In 1915 it was sold as low as $1.87 per 
hundred pounds, and two cents per pound was the average con- 
tract price; the next year it had risen to 3 cents; in 1918 to S^c, 
in 1919 to 3 9-10, in 1920 to 4%, and for the first quarter of 1921 
to 61/2 as the lowest for contracts, and ranging from 10 cents to 
the sky as the limit for spot paper in the open market. I have 
seen quotations as high as 16 cents. Besides, the purchasers have 
to pay the freight on returned cores, which the manufacturer 
formerly paid; and freight rates have also been advanced about 
70 per cent. The H. C. P. has outdistanced the H. C. L. 

Formerly a publisher’s business for paper was solicited, his 
orders were appreciated, because paper bills run into fabulous 
sums, and he could select the mill from which he would buy; but 
during the war period only one mill would supply him, he took 
what he could get as to quality and quantity, with nothing to 
say about the price. 

Prior to the war, I was sure that I knew all about print paper, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


195 


as I had dealt in the product nearly all my life, but I suddenly 
awoke to a realization that what I did not know about it would 
fill a book, especially as to price and how to buy the goods. 

We had not in the past bothered much about our paper sup- 
ply, further than that we preferred to have a contract with a 
reputable mill, in order that we might know exactly what we were 
doing, and to be sure that we would get a good quality of stock. 

If anybody had told me five years previously that I could 
not go out into the market with the money and buy all the paper 
I wanted, I would have said, “You are crazy.” 

In the year 1915 our paper had contracts with two mills, 
each for about one-half of our requirements. About two days 
before the expiration of the contract, one of the mills notified us, 
unceremoniously, that, while our relations had been satisfactory, 
it had more contracts than it could fill, and that it was extremely 
sorry that it could supply us no longer. This was like throwing a 
bombshell into our face. We wrote, then telegraphed and tele- 
phoned to various mills, and after burning up a hundred dollars 
or more in telegraph and long-distance tolls, without getting any 
satisfaction, we started a man out in search of paper. The repre- 
sentative could not even get inside of the mill offices. Everywhere 
he was met at the doors with word that they had no paper to sell, 
and they would not make appointments to discuss the matter. 
The mill men said, “Don’t you know that there is a paper famine 
on?” We did not know what it meant, but we did know that 
something was wrong. 

Once when we were so short of paper that I had worried 
myself sick over it, I wired John Budd in New York to make the 
rounds of the paper houses in that city in an effort to get us some 
paper, at any price. He obtained for us five carloads through the 
agency of a Canadian mill. We wrote, thanking him for asking 
for the paper for us. He objected to the word we used, as he 


196 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


said he did not merely ask for it; he had to beg and get down on 
his knees and pray for it. 

At first I was disposed to believe that we were being made an 
exception of, and I personally made two trips to a mill to investi- 
gate the situation. At one meeting there were 37 other publishers 
who were all practically in the same predicament as ourselves. 
These publishers evidenced an independent spirit around the 
hotels, and some of them talked boastingly of what they were going 
to do to the paper manufacturers, but when they met and talked 
in person to the paper kings they were as docile as lambs on their 
way to beard the lion in his den. 

At a certain mill, at which a number of publishers had met, 
for the purpose of trying to get concessions in price and additional 
shipments, a strike occurred during their visit. The publishers 
were being entertained by the president of the mill at a house- 
boat party, when they were notified of the occurrence, by a special 
messenger, in somewhat of a theatrical manner. After consider- 
ing the demands of the workmen, the mill-owner announced that 
he would spend a quarter of a million dollars before he would 
submit to the workmen, who were unreasonable. 

Of course, the publishers could not blame the mill man for 
resisting the claims of the men, if he considered them immoderate; 
but, as one of the publishers said, “Where do we get off? If the 
mill shuts down, the supply will cease, and the newspapers would 
be the greatest sufferers thereby.” The up-shot of it was that, 
obstensibly to keep the mill going, without loss to the owners, the 
publishers agreed to stand the amount of the increased cost above 
the price which they were paying on their contracts for paper. 
The newspaper men went there expecting to get a reduction in 
price, but “got it in the neck,” as they expressed it. It was a great 
joke on them. 

Recently, in conversation with a fellow publisher, I, jestingly, 
referred to the news print manufacturers as “profiteers.” “That 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


197 


is unjust,” was his reply; “when four or five people are bidding 
for an article, the man who has it to sell will naturally get all he 
can for it.” That is the situation. There was not enough paper 
to go around, but was it a natural or a manufactured shortage? 

The man who has to keep the printing presses going these 
days has a job, instead of a position. One Thursday morning, I 
had just one roll of paper left after printing the day’s edition. 
By chartering a special engine to intercept a carload which, 
through tracing by wire, we learned was side-tracked somewhere 
up the road, in Missouri, the car was brought in that night before 
press time. On another occasion, I had about twelve rolls on 
hand on a Saturday morning, while 68 rolls were required to print 
the Sunday issue. A carload arrived in the nick of time that after- 
noon. The press-room cupboard is continually bare, and these 
kind of calls are too close. Charged with the responsibility of 
issuing a newspaper every day, and experiencing such hair-breadth 
escapes from suspension as these is enough to drive a man mad, 
when he is 1,500 miles distant from the nearest paper mill. 
Nothing less than a few carloads ahead will ever make him feel 
safe and enable him to sleep well. 

Shortly before the war, a certain paper manufacturer, in 
sailing down a little river in the North, proudly pointed out to 
his guests piles of spruce wood extending for a mile along the 
bank, and remarked that he had enough wood to keep his mill run- 
ning for two years. When surprise was expressed, he further said, 
“And I have sufficient material in the adjacent forest (to which 
he pointed) to last me for twenty years. In a few months after 
the war started, his wood pile was gone and the forest depleted. 
Where it all went is a mystery. 

In January, 1920, I made a contract with a mill for 3,000 
tons of paper, to be delivered in equal monthly installments during 
the year. This was 500 tons less than I wanted, but it was all that 
I could get allotted to me, and by close shaving we could get 


198 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


through on that quantity. I was resting comparatively easy until 
I received a telegram from the mill that Canada had placed an 
embargo on shipments from one of the mills from which the 
company was making shipments to us. On this account, our ship- 
ments were cut forty per cent, until the embargo was lifted, under 
article seven of the contract, which provided that in case of in- 
surrection, war, embargo, strikes or unavoidable acts of God, the 
company could reduce their shipments. The embargo was finally 
raised, but not until I had had a bad scare. 

About two-thirds of the newsprint manufactured in Canada is 
being sold in the United States, and the Canadian newspapers have 
had to go hungry because their government fixed a price on paper 
which was less than it was selling for in the United States. 

In the summer of 1920, a certain mill called its customers 
to meet with its managers at Chicago. The customers were in- 
formed that the mill would lose a million dollars on its 1920 con- 
tracts; that it had an offer of 10 cents a pound for one-half of its 
output for 1921, which would give it a chance to recoup its loss, 
as that was more than double the price which it was receiving on 
its contracts, expiring December 31, 1920; and it was desired that 
the publishers release one-half of their tonnage for the next year, 
to enable the mill to make this profit. Of course, the publishers 
objected, as they were doubtless expected to do, because at that 
time they could not get paper elsewhere at a reasonable price, on 
account of the condition which prevailed in the market. They 
were then told that they would have to make up that million dol- 
lars, if they expected to get their full quotas from the mill during 
1921. They rebelled at first, but at the “shown down” all of the 
publishers, numbering nearly one hundred, subscribed their pro 
ratas to the fund. What a snap that was for the mill owners! 

Nothing was so common as paper until the past two years, 
and nobody dreamed that it would become such a scarce article, 
although as a matter of fact the growth of the newspaper, both as 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


199 


to its size in pages and in its circulation, has been marvelous. 
Immense forests of wood are every year consumed in the manu- 
facture of paper, and many are now giving utterance to fears that 
the supply of a proper kind of wood pulp for the making of paper 
will in a few years become exhausted. Reforestation is being 
earnestly discussed, and doubtless new sources of supply, or sub- 
stitutes for spruce, will be found, when they shall be actually re- 
quired. At any rate, the end of the supply is not in sight, and it 
is yet unnecessary to disturb ourselves about how we shall get 
along without print paper. The supply will doubtless last during 
our time, and we may leave newspaper posterity to shift for them- 
selves. But, may the great torch of enlightenment and liberty — 
the press — never grow dim for lack of paper. 

Little strips of paper 

Made from chips of wood, 

When impressed with living words 
Work for human good. 



A Roll of Print Paper, a Commodity Which Was Very Plentiful and Exceed- 
ingly Cheap at One Time, But the Scarcity and Costliness of Which 
During the War Caused Much Worry to Publishers. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE OF TODAY 


T HE newspaper office will always have a fascination for me, 
and I believe my interest in the business is shared by many 
people. The work on a newspaper is not only enticing, but in 
few other pursuits are you thrown with so many people in such 
intimate ways. You have your fingers on the pulse of the world, 
as it were. You hear of every occurrence, and a vast panorama 
of the events of mankind pass in review before you. The virtues 
and foibles of humanity are continually bared to your eyes. You 
may here learn, through personal contact, and because of tele- 



<r 


“ ’Midst a Storm of News of the Day.” 


graphic and cable communication with the uttermost parts of the 
earth, to read human nature better than anywhere else. Through 
the introduction of the newspaper, without formalities, you are 
made acquainted with President Harding, the kings of earth, and 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


201 


all other great men and women. It enables you to become fa- 
miliar with the thoughts and feelings of the people of all classes. 

With a morning newspaper, night is the time of its greatest 
activity, and that is when the establishment should be seen to be 
appreciated. A most interesting place is in full swing. The plant 
is ablaze with electric light. The machinery is started, and 
every activity going. The visitor may see something like this: 

In the business office, advertising, subscription and news- 
dealer orders are being received and executed, instructions to the 
foreman and the press run are being made out. 

In the editorial rooms the reporters are grinding out copy 
on typewriters for the hungry maws of the typesetting machines; 
the telegraph editor is revising dispatches and writing heads; the 
city editor is overlooking the reporter’s work, and assigning men 
to cover certain items ; every minute or two there comes in over the 
long-distance telephone lines news of various matters; telegraph 
messengers are constantly arriving with specials; the operators 
of the Associated Press and other news services are receiving the 
news of the world in cipher code over the leased wires and trans- 
mitting it in first-class typewritten copy to the editors, the society 
editress sends in a batch of such chaff as pleases the lady readers; 
the sporting editor is making up baseball results and reports of 
other athletic events; other department heads are engaged in 
routine work; the editor-in-chief is composing his leaders; feature 
men, and the paragrapher, too, are at work; the proofreaders are 
marking errors. 

“And what is this?” asks a visitor, who is making the rounds 
of the establishment. 

“That is the morgue,” replies the attendant. 

“Do you bury people there?” 

“Not exactly. The Morgue is the name given in a news- 
paper office to a dusty, untidy place, where are kept pictures, 
clippings, files, engravings and biographies of people, living and 


202 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


dead, whose records it may be necessary to dig up for use in a 
story or an obituary. The material is, or ought to be, indexed, 
so that it may readily be extracted from the pickle jar when you 
get into jail or into the legislature, are divorced or die. See!” 

The guide then tells the visitor a story about the visit that 
Cecil Rhodes once made to the library and morgue of the London 
Daily Mail, when someone mischievously suggested that perhaps 
Mr. Rhodes would like to see what the paper would say about 
him when he died. 

“Mr. Rhodes answered that he would,” says the entertaining 
young man, “and it is said that a biographical envelope was pro- 
duced. In it was an obituary notice, already prepared, in view 
of possible eventualities. It began with the statement, ‘We an- 
nounce with profound regret, etc., the death of Cecil Rhodes.’ 
The distinguished Empire Builder is said to have disliked having 
his possible demise prepared for in advance.” 



The Editor c3\irv^/}N^TI?e Towrv. 


Ye editor here is surveying the town, 

’Midst a storm of the news of the day, 

And with eye microscopic runs everything down, 
To decide what is proper to say. 

It is here that the master of pencil and quill, 

Or the one who the typewriter plays, 

Is chunking off wisdom the paper to fill, 

To give views, and to better folks’ ways. 




Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


203 


‘And have you my obituary here?” further enquires the 
caller. 

“Well, if we have, we had better not show it to you.” 

The newspaper file room is also an interesting one, for 
bound volumes of Gazette files run back previous to the Civil 
War, and contain the most authentic history of the State and the 
activities of its people. 

An inspection is then made of the Composing Room, where 
the editorial, news and advertising matter is put in type and the 
forms are made up for the stereotypers. Great are the changes 
from former days in this department, where all the typesetting was 
then performed by hand. Now we see a big battery of linotypes, 
intertype and monotype machines, each having an individual elec- 
tric motor to provide its power. Each typesetting machine does 
the work that it required five or six men to do before such ma- 
chines came into use; and these intelligent contrivances also auto- 
matically distribute the matrices from which the lines of type 
are cast. Through the agency of the monotype caster, new type 
for display advertisements, as well as borders, rules, slugs and 
leads, are made, and each day after being used, are thrown into 
the “hell box,” from which they are removed and remelted in the 
metal pot, instead of being distributed in the cases, as formerly. 
This is called the non-distribution system. 

(High-powered machinery and many intricate mechanical 
aids are employed in the modern publishing plant, but man- 
power is still the essential requirement. Alert, educated brains, 
and ready, industrious hands are required to achieve success.) 

In the basement are the great rumbling presses, manned for 
service — wonderful, imposing machines, which are the result of 
study, experiment and tireless labor on the part of skilled me- 
chanical inventors. Behold the bewildering combination of cogs, 
cylinders, form-locks, rollers, ink fountains — fed by air compress- 
ors — brass-lined stairways leading to press decks and platforms; 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


the miraculously intelligent folders, attached to which are me- 
chanical labor-saving paper carriers, and many other accoutre- 
ments, too numerous to mention. 

You inspect the puzzling mysteries of the stereotype foundry, 
where the matrices are made from paper, blotter and paste, steam- 
rolled and dried at a temperature of 300 to 400 degrees of heat; 
the big melting vat, containing 7 tons or more of metal, made of 
lead, tin and antimony; the casting-box and pouring pump; the 
sawing, finishing and cooling machine; the jig saws and trimmers 
for finishing and morticing illustrations. 

After the making of the circular plates, from which the print- 
ing is actually done, instead of from type, you see the plates car- 
ried to the presses and locked on the cylinders, being placed as 
numbered by marks on the inside. 

Big rolls of white paper, of various sizes, to accommodate 
the different sized sections, weighing from 300 to 1,400 pounds 
each, are loaded on the rear of the presses by electric hoists. 
When the rolls are in place, a long strip is unwound from each, 
fed over a series of rollers by moving the press cylinders in a slow 
jerk, the men crawling around in and about the elephantile ma- 
chine, drawing the sheets over and under various cylinders, until 
they extend through, and connect with the folders. 

A signal is given, and presto! The pressman touches a but- 
ton connected with the big electric control-board which regulates 
the 75-horsepower motor, and the wheels begin to turn. The press 
functions slowly at first, the stream of white paper creeping over 
the forms. Gradually the speed is accelerated, the ink rollers and 
cylinders revolve faster; the squeaking, whirring noise swells at 
last into a great roar. You cannot hear yourself talk. As the 
momentum increases, the wheels revolve like lightning, and you 
marvel at the perfection of the operation as the machine turns 
out papers faster than you can count them. But it is unnecessary 
to count the papers. The folder has a simple, little attachment 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


205 


which registers every copy that goes through it and gives the total. 
The product is also divided into parcels of fifty each. 

Unfortunately, a press sometimes “cuts up,” like a spoiled 
child, when visitors are around. The web of paper breaks while 
the wheels are revolving at full speed, and in a moment all of the 
parts are enveloped by a mass of wasted, crumpled paper. The 
press hands rush around like mad. The machine must be stopped, 
which is done by simply pressing another button, of a different 
color from the “start” button. The mangled sheets have to be 
eliminated, and the process of threading the paper through the 
press must be repeated. 

The pressman explains that accidents like the one described 
are caused by rotten paper, by some fault in the press, which 
must be kept scrupulously clean and well oiled, or by a high spot 
in a form plate. 

“How fast does it print?” is usually asked. 

“That depends on the press and the size of the paper in 
pages,” replies the pressman. “The octuple press consists of four 
eight-page units, and two folders. Each revolution of the clyinders 
prints two eight-page sections, if there are that many or more on 
the press. For sixteen to thirty-two pages, about thirty thousand 
an hour is the speed. Beyond that number of pages the speed is 
reduced one-half. Therefore, the shorter the rolls of paper which 
are used, the faster the speed, because a less number of decks 
are used, but short rolls can only be used on editions which are 
small in their number of pages. The octuple press uses 54- and 
72-inch rolls of paper. The two-plate wide presses, use 36y±- 
and 18%-inch rolls.” 

The tour of inspection of the plant has now been completed. 
Notice how punctually everything moves. Speed is the watch- 
word. Speed is required in every department of the up-to-the- 
minute newspaper. A morning newspaper must go to press 
early, if it is to be ready for the breakfast table, and those who 


206 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


would rather have it than a cup of coffee are not to be dis- 
appointed. 

Copy must be speedily prepared; speed must be used in 
setting it; there must be more speed in locking up the forms, and 
still more speed in making the plates and starting up the press. 
Everything must be speeded along — or the other fellow will beat 
you to it. 

Here is an incident which will illustrate how celerity is prac- 
ticed on an up-to-snuff newspaper. 

On December 9, 1921, the Gazette presses were just starting 
to run off an edition. Word came to the office that Tom Slaugh- 
ter, who was sentenced to be electrocuted, together with half a 
dozen other convicts, had just escaped from the State penitentiary. 
The only member of the editorial staff then on duty was Clyde 
L. Dew, the night editor (and Madam Rumor says that he would 
not have been there if he had not tarried to play a game of cards 
with the printers). He jumped up in a jiffy, had the presses 
stopped, ’phoned for a taxi, in which he had the driver go pell- 
mell to the prison-house. In a few minutes he had the facts about 
the notorious Slaughter’s get-away, and was back at the office. 
In less than an hour and a half he had written an interesting 
two-column report of the exploit, which the printers had set up as 
fast as written, so that when the last word of the report was type- 
written by Mr. Dew, only three lines remained to be set on the 
linotypes. Then the printing of the edition was quickly resumed. 

Mr. Dew’s achievement was the remarkable work of a good 
news-man, but the Gazette’s biggest beat occurred the next day. 
The outlaw had left in his cell a fifteen-page letter, addressed to 
the Arkansas Democrat, the afternoon paper, explaining why he 
determined to break jail, belaboring his enemies, and praising 
certain people who had befriended him. The letter was a curious 
production, and it was exceedingly interesting, because Slaughter 
had been before the public for a long time. He was a notorious 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


207 


bank robber, an all-round bad man, who had murdered a prison 
guard, defied the officers of the law, as well as threatened the life 
of the Governor. But the Democrat failed to get this letter in time 
for its afternoon edition. A Gazette reporter obtained a copy of 
it and printed it before the Democrat saw it. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


TWO NATIONAL EDITORIAL ASSOCIATION EXCURSIONS 
AND THEIR ATTENDANT ADVENTURES. 

T)APER troubles and business annoyances, avaunt, for a brief 
A spell! It is fortunate that life consists of a variety of experi- 
ences, and it is a person’s own fault if he fails to find pleasures 
enough to over-balance the trials and tribulations of the world. 

The American newspaper man is not only the brainiest, the 
most energetic and enterprising of his profession, but he is said 
to be the most indefatigable excursionist in the world. He con- 
tracted galivanting habits in the good old days of the profession 
when any railroad or steamship company would give him a pass 
or exchange transportation for advertising. 

This peregrinating tendency of the newspaper man is, of 
course, excusable. It is, in fact, natural, commendable and nec- 
essary. We are all curious to see things and explore places that 
are new to us, even though we are entirely contented at home, 
which is seldom the case with restless man. Most of us are in- 
clined to think that it is the land we have not visited wdiich will 
be the most interesting and pleasurable to us. Dr. Samuel Johnson 
said that, “if the passenger visits better countries he may learn to 
improve his own; and if fortune carries him to worse, he may 
learn to enjoy his own.” Anyway, travel is attractive. Almost 
everyone who has not “done” Europe, for instance, has an ambi- 
tion to go there. But, if a person lives in the United States, he 
should see all of that country first, and then he should travel 
over Canada. These are vast areas to explore, full of wonders, 
teeming with interest and instruction. After he has exhausted 
this continent, let him go to Europe, Asia or Africa, if then any 
years of his life are yet to be spent. 

For thirty-five years, it has been the practice of the National 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


209 


Editorial Association of the United States (sometimes called by its 
members, “the National Eatatorial Association”), at the close of 
each of its annual conventions, which usually take place in June 
or July, to arrange for an excursion through some interesting part 
of the continent which has not been explored by it. The objects 
of the trip, of course, are to obtain recreation and to gather the 
information which travel affords. 

It has been reasonably easy to arrange for such junkets, be- 
cause the transportation companies have ever been ready to en- 
courage them and to grant concessions generally to the editorial 
fraternity. Numerous cities bid for the privilege of entertaining 
such conventions, and various commercial organizations join with 
the railroads in offering inducements to secure the gatherings, be- 
cause, no doubt, they believe they receive a benefit from them in 
a publicity value. 

Being in ill health, needing a rest and change of air, I was 
easily prevailed upon to accept an invitation to accompany, in 
1919, a jolly crowd on the “Victory Tour” of that association 
through Western Canada, and again in 1920 through the Eastern 
provinces. We spent about a month on each trip. 

The train traveled in Western Canada about 4,000 miles, not 
including automobile side-trips; and we passed through scenery 
as diversified and as interesting as the imagination could desire. 
In going through the Canadian Rockies the train was parked at 
night, so that none of the scenic beauties would be missed. 

The branches of the Canadian Bank of Commerce received 
and distributed mail for the editors at each stopping place, our 
laundry was called for and returned to us, typewriters and writing 
material were supplied, there was a postoffice on board, outstand- 
ing points of interest were pointed out by men who knew every 
foot of the ground, news bulletins were provided, and little could 
be thought of that was left undone in the interest of showing the 
scribes a good time. The dining car service was excellent, and 


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the only comfort that was absent was the old-fashioned daily bath. 
We enjoyed that luxury only when we reached an hotel. It is 
estimated that this entertainment cost the Canadians over $30,000. 

Notwithstanding that on one of these trips a fat lady sat on 
my ten-dollar Panama hat and gave it such a squelching that it 
was unfit for further service as a lid; and that at one place I broke 
my watch; at another town smashed my spectacles; at Wolfville 
tore a hole in the back of my overcoat in crawling under a barbed 
wire fence; at Sackville, Ont., fell and broke a rib in descending 
a waxed stairway when leaving a ball and reception; at Bigwin 
Inn almost lost my reputation, as will be explained; and that, 
after buying some furs, I came home with a pocket-book as flat 
as a flounder fish, whereas it was bulging with protuberance when 
I started; — notwithstanding all these dire calamities, I still truth- 
fully say that this was one of the most delightful outings that I 
ever experienced. 

We rode on sumptuous trains through peaceful valleys and 
circled mountains high in the air. 

We floated on palatial steamboats over placid waters, through 
the roaring waves of the briny ocean, on rolling, glistening bays, 
and in sparkling lakes. 

We shot dangerous rapids; swept through gigantic gorges, 
and under spraying waterfalls. 

We went through dark, smoky tunnels, and crossed all sorts 
of water courses on trestled and suspension bridges. 

We were propelled in surface, subway and elevated cars, in 
rubber-neck wagons, taxis, “tin-lizzies,” and the costliest auto- 
mobiles. 

We were lifted in elevators that made our heads swim. 

We sported in Victorias at Montreal and in Caleches at 
Quebec. 

Laughing and singing, we sped along in high-powered auto- 
mobiles at the rate of 60 miles an hour over the smoothest, most 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


211 


picturesque, asphalted roads in the world; and we jogged in 
horse-drawn and ox-pulled wagons over the roughest corduroy 
roads in existence. 

We used ferry-boats, oar-boats, launches; and nervy ones took 
flights in aeroplanes. 

For excitement, some of us rode on the cow-catcher of the 
train’s engine; others rode at times with the engineer in the tender, 
and for a while the baggage car was a popular resort. 

We traveled in sunshine and in shade, through dust and mud, 
and in rain ; but the weather man was good to us most of the time. 

We walked over giant bridges, we tramped over snow-capped 
mountains, we strolled through fresh, sweet-smelling fields of 
grain, and amid banks of gorgeous flowers; we climbed observa- 
tion towers, and we bathed in the sea. 

We followed Indian trails and cow paths through the woods 
of the provinces. 

As Canada has every variety of climate distributed over its 
wide area, sometimes we were warm in Mohair or Palm Beach 
suits, and slept comfortably under thin sheets; while at other 
times we had to put on woolen underwear, and sleep under 
blankets, beside a snowbank on a mountain side. 

The dining car was often used for a progressive card party, 
or converted into a dance hall. 

We ate buffalo, whale, bear, salmon, lobster and all the 
delicacies that a bountiful earth affords, in addition to the most 
sumptuous meals which ordinary mortals feed on. 

We drank water from limpid streams and bubbling springs, 
Scotch whiskey served in pitchers, and beer and ale from buckets; 
in fact we had everything we wanted to drink, in spite of pro- 
hibition. 

We attended receptions, dances, entertainments, theatre 
parties, festivals, circuses, garden teas, dinners, suppers, ’till we 
were sick of them — and some of us even went to church. 


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We heard every kind of music including a Kilty band, and 
lots of noise that wasn’t music. 

Souvenirs were handed out and flowers were showered upon 
us everywhere. 

We heard speech-making and story-telling galore. 

There was an abundance of good feeling, lots of “cousinly” 
and “brotherly” felicitations and flirtations, many pleasant ex- 
changes of compliments in regard to the imaginary international 
border which it had never been necessary to fortify. In fact 
there was a surfeit of everything, except sleep, for the party. 
There was the darndest bunch of night-owls along that was ever 
congregated in one aggregation. Old men and middle-aged wom- 
en indulged in pillow-fighting like kids, and in their numerous 
pranks some of the crowd respected neither old age nor de- 
crepitude. 

There was a superabundance of singing — at least, it was 
called singing; and the practical joker was also along. 

We had orators and oratresses; poets and poetesses. 

We had genuine bully times! 

It is good to be on an excursion of newspaper men and 
women. 

We were lucky to be able to visit Grand Pre, in the heart of 
Acadia, celebrated by Longfellow’s Evangeline, just as the apple- 
blossoms in the big orchards were in full bloom. This section 
had a romantic interest for us, aside from its natural beauties and 
the history connected with its misfortunes. The engine of the 
train on which we rode, appropriately bore the name of Gabriel, 
each of us was presented Avith a copy of Evangeline, together with 
leaflets by Canadian poets. Therefore, we were thoroughly sat- 
urated with the sentiment of the scene. We tramped over the en- 
closed sacred site of the church, marked by a large cross of 
cemented stones, at which the Acadians were summoned to hear 
the king’s message, after which they were dispersed; we looked 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


213 


down the well from which Evangeline is supposed to have drawn 
water for the family; we stood under a row of ancient willows 
which had been planted by the unfortunate settlers — trees with 
drooping leaves which “stand like Druids of Eld, with voices sad 
and prophetic.” We saw the dykes built by the French. 

We had a pleasant visit to the home of Dr. Andrew Graham 
Bell, the inventor of the telephone, at Bien Breagh, where he has 
a magnificent estate, with a house which looks like a Scotch castle. 
His wife, who is a deaf mute, served us with tea and cake, while 
the doctor talked interestingly of his inventions. 

We were treated to an exhibition on the Bras d’Or Lakes of 
Dr. Bell’s Hydroplane, by his son-in-law, Casey Baldwin. This 
machine plows the waters at the speed of 70 miles an hour, and 
was intended to be used as a submarine chaser during the war, 
but was not completed in time for service. 

We spent a day on Prince Edward’s Island, the “Million 
Acre Farm,” which is one of the world’s beauty spots, and visited 
the celebrated fox ranches, which are said to be as profitable as 
gold mines. The ladies of the party were greatly interested, and 
could hardly be torn away from the little cubs, especially from 
the kennels where baby foxes were being mothered by cats. The 
women had a two-fold interest. Every one of them coveted a 
silver fox fur, to keep the sun off her shoulders in summer, 
and to muff her hands in winter. 

At Moncton we saw the tidal bore come in, a sight worth 
going many miles to see. We were late in arriving, and some of 
us had been slightly discouraged because Harry, the train porter, 
was quoted by J. E. Klock, the most truthful man in the party, 
as saying that he had “got out at the station many times and never 
had seen any hawg yet.” 

At the metropolis of Montreal we visited Notre Dame and 
St. James Cathedrals; and we shot the Lachine Rapids, near Mon- 
treal, but were disappointed at the tameness of the rapids, after 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


being prepared for a squally time by putting on rubber slickers 
and being cautioned to hold on to the deck railings. 

The eyes which have never beheld the beauties of Lake Louise, 
Banff, the boulders of the “Great Divide,” Jasper Park, Lucerne, 
Kamloops and Boston Bar, in the Canadian Rockies, have missed 
much of the world’s grandeur. 

The Buffalo herds at Wainwright, a wild west stampede at 
Calgary, an exhibition drill by the Royal Northwest Mounted 
Police, at Regina, a visit to the celebrated Shrine of Ste. Anne de 
Baupre and the Redemptorist Church, with the magnificent 
jewelled statue of the Virgin in the Basilica, and the Holy Stair, 
which you may ascend only on your knees, furnished a variety of 
unexcelled sight-seeing. 

Nobody, as he approaches Quebec, will ever forget the sight 
of the majestic St. Lawrence river, nor the visit to the ancient 
French city, with its bold promintory, the imposing Chateau 
Frontenac, the Laval University, Dufferin Terrace, the Plains of 
Abraham, and the numerous monuments which mark historic 
spots. 

Visits to Toronto and Ottawa, with their beautiful architec- 
tural buildings, were full of interest; and speeches made at these 
cities, and at Winnipeg, Edmonton, as well as at other points in 
both the Eastern and Western Provinces, bespoke a continuance 
of the long-existing friendship between the people of the Dominion 
and her great continental neighbor. The President and the King 
were always toasted with hip-hip-hurrahs, and the joint singing 
of “America” and “God Save the King” was a part of every 
program. 

As we travel around we are reminded of many of the incon- 
sistencies of mankind. Pilgrims left England to avoid intolerance. 
French Canadians gave up their earthly possession, and some of 
them their lives, or were dispersed, rather than swear allegiance 
to the British. In the St. John Valley of Canada we met descend- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


215 


ants of more than three thousand souls who left the New England 
States during the Revolutionary War as Loyalists because they 
would not support the Independence of the United States. The 
descendants of these Loyalists are as proud of their ancestry as 
are the sons of those who sailed on the Mayflower. 

I was an interested spectator at a part of a session of the Par- 
liament at Ottawa. In the House, a discussion was in progress on 
a bill to grant pensions to ex- war service men, to whom Canada 
has been very liberal. In the Senate, the Postmaster-General, who 
is a member with a vote, in common with other cabinet officers, 
was making a speech in connection with proposed new second-class 
postage rates (newspaper postage rates) which, by the way, are 
lower there than in the United States. The demeanor of the 
members was dignified and the utmost decorum prevailed in the 
chambers. I was struck with the respect paid to the presiding 
officers. A member in entering or leaving the chamber always 
bowed to the presiding officer, who wears vestments which desig- 
nates his high position. Instead of the vociferous applause which 
greets a speaker in the United States when he makes an appealing 
point, the auditors simply voice their approval by crying, 
“hear, hear.” 

At a reception tendered the party by the Lieutenant-Governor 
of one of the provinces, we saw something of the pomp and eti- 
quette of official Canadian government. The governor, in even- 
ing dress, was accompanied by a military attache, in uniform, 
and in front of him in the receiving line stood his official “an- 
nouncer,” in full dress. 

A citizen of the United States can hardly reconcile with his 
idea of the word the Canadian one of “domesticating” a title, as 
expressed in this paragraph from a Dominion newspaper: 

“Lord* Atholston * * * brought the ancient title of Baron 

*Lord Atholston, editor of the Montreal Star, was plain Mr. Graham 
until King George bestowed on him a title in 1919. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


home to us, and domesticated it. He has made it more human, 
and, shall I say, Canadian. He has no notion that the empire is 
a top pivoting perilously on Westminster, but rather a broad 
based Temple of Liberty, with one of its stoutest foundations rest- 
ing on the soil of Canada.” 

While I was in Canada in 1920, word was received of the 
defeat, through the President’s disapproval, of the Underwood 
Resolution in the United States Congress. This resolution, as 
will be remembered, was the result of a controversy between the 
two countries over pulp wood used in paper making. Canada had 
placed an embargo on the shipment of spruce wood to the United 
States mills, and this resolution was intended to bring pressure 
to bear on Canada to lift the embargo, in the interest of the Am- 
erican mills. Competition had been keen between the mills of 
both countries, and on account of Canada’s immense forests of 
spruce, the matter assumed an important international aspect. 
Canada rejoiced over the defeat of the Resolution, and American 
mills that were short of wood were correspondingly disappointed. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A BRIEF SEASON OF MIRTH. 

COME of the members of the editorial party who traveled on Car 
^ Four remained on the train, instead of going on a side trip 
with the others to Timmins, in the neighborhood of the Cobalt 
Gold and Silver Mines. They did so in order to arrange for a 
reception and melon party. 

The ladies painted, powdered and rigged themselves up in 
all sorts of fantastic garbs, while the gentlemen contrived to use 
pillow-slips, berth curtains, and all the old clothes they could find 
or borrow to disguise themselves with. One gentleman turned 
his collar around so as to button it in the back, obtained a large 
black cap, put on a white night gown over his clothes, and was 
thus dressed almost perfectly to impersonate a Roman Catholic 
bishop; another, with a curtain for a gown, represented a knight 
of ye olden time; a handsome man, in borrowed knee breeches 
and a silk blouse, with powdered hair, appeared as an English 
nobleman; then there was one disguised as a Spanish Grandee, 
or a Knight Errant; others personated similar characters. The 
ladies did not need to be adorned with so many clothes. The 
ridiculous costumes, the pretended dignity of the actors, the songs 
that they sang, and the numerous capers cut up, afforded no end 
of amusement. 

Now Lady Emily Odell, 

With many a fantastic belle, 

And scores of gallant gentlemen, 

Receives her friends in state, at ten, 

To cap the pleasures of a day, 

Whose last warm glow has passed away; 

Parked there beside Ontario’s lake, 

The scribes all heavy thoughts forsake. 

The Pullman Company made loan — 

(A fact to that concern unknown) — 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


**■ 


Of curtains, blankets, snowy sheets, 

And most amazing use of seats, 

To add rich touches of burlesque 
And render stage effects grotesque. 

Larks that never larked before 
Larked high that night on gay Car Four, 
Aboard the Million-Dollar Train 
That sped the wide Canadian main. 

The air was charged with honied words, 
The songs outrivaled those of birds, 

The moon with yellow jealous eye 
Peered through the windows from the sky. 
Where bright-eyed beauty gave her charm, 
And hearts bestowed their feelings warm. 

The Lady Simeral was there, 

With garlanded and powdered hair; 

The Countess Keen, petite and neat, 

A melon served, not half as sweet 
As was her dainty, winsome self; 

The Duchess Carpenter, the elf, 

Sparkling like airiest fairy queen, 

In long receiving line was seen, — 

A smile for each, a glance which told 
Of richly dowered heart of gold. 

The Lady Evans added grace 
With her rare lovliness of face; 

With flower-like features, starry eyes, 

The Baroness de Blain brought sighs 
From all who saw her shapeliness 
Attired in masculine full dress; 

Kind Mommy Redfield’s sweetest smile 
Beamed over all in friendly style, 

As in her gracious, stately way 
Her many pleasant things she’d say; 

While queenly Lady Emily 

Was well worth riding miles to see. 

But woman’s graces shine the best 
When men are with their presence blessed. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


219 


And in this goodly gathering 

Were knightly men to dance and sing; 

Count Evans, dignified and tall, 

In swallow-tail, was peer of all; 

His grace, the Duke of Tarrytown, 

In knickerbocks, silk hose and gown. 
Made all the maiden company 
Feel jealous of fair Emily; 

The debonair Sir William Smith, 

So apt in song and jests with pith, 

Came late, to liven things a bit 
With bursts of song and thrusts of wit; 
The courtly Carpenter, grown fat, 

Had donned a bishop’s gown and hat; 
He sprinkled men with holy dew. 

Their minds to lift, their sins to rue; 
The great and fine Count Carmel-Keen, 
Though of reserved and serious mien, 

Was condescending to each guest, 

And gaily frolicked with the rest. 

Nor was the night without romance, 

Its lively pleasures to enhance; 

And w'ell it was, for life were drear 
When Love forsakes our earthly sphere;— 
Don Poppy oft was seen to flirt 
And linger near a pretty skirt; 

Then he was not at all averse 
To hold a ladys’ hand or purse, 

And once in a sequestered place 
He dared to kiss a damsel’s face. 

But two regrets helped mar the mirth — 
The Lady Flora sick a’berth, 

And Klock returning to New York, — 
With none to pull the festive cork. 

Alas! bed time arrived loo soon 
For editors who love to spoon; 

A pleasant and historic night 
Had taken its eternal flight! 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


But Memory will long enshrine 
This happy night with things divine 
For journalists who took that trip 
And shared in its good-fellowship, — 

That fortunate newspaper band 
Which journeyed far by sea and land 
Through that Dominion of the King 
Of which Canadian poets sing, — 

A land much blest by Nature’s gifts, — 
With mammoth lakes and rocky rifts, — 
Of mountain peaks and rich wheat fields, 
Great forests and immense fish yields, 

Of summer joys and winter snows, — 
Land where the sugar maple grows. 

But ’though we love our cousins there, 
And praise their soil and mountain air, 
We feel their land does not compare 
With our own loved United States, 

As, happy, we regain its gates. 




CHAPTER XXXI. 

A SPOONEY AFFAIR AT BIGWIG INN. 

TUNE 25th, 1920, was a day which has been indelibly stamped 
^ on my memory, — not only because it was the 53rd anniversary 
of my birth, celebrated as none of my other birthdays ever had 
been, but for another reason, — and thereby hangs a tale. 

The editorial party left Iroquois Falls in the evening, and, 
passing through North Bay, arrived at Huntsville, Ont., at 8 a. m. 
the next day. At that place a boat of the Bay Navigation Com- 
pany was boarded for a sail through the Lake of the Bays, in the 
Highlands of Ontario, to go to Bigwin Inn, on a little island of 
the same name. 

The Lake of the Bays is certainly one of nature’s loveliest 
resorts. From the crossing of Fairy Lake to Bigwin Island, the 
multitude of little islands, the diversified shore line, and the 
glorious wealth of trees and vines, with the varied tints of the 
water, the trip is one of constant surprise and delight. Between 
Peninsular Lake and the real Lake of the Bays there is a portage, 
which furnishes an interesting change, for here the passengers 
are transferred to a miniature train, running over the world’s 
shortest railroad, at the terminus of which the passengers are 
transferred to another steamboat, to complete the trip. The won- 
der is that the captains of the steamboats should be able to find 
their way through the watery labyrinth among the numerous 
islands, especially when in some places the channel between 
islands is only a few feet wider than the vessel as it winds itself 
around and between island after island. 

A millionaire tanner of Huntsville had established a mag- 
nificent resort hotel on Bigwin Island, to accommodate 500 guests. 
It was to be formally opened to the public the next day, but the 
manager had arranged to entertain with a special luncheon the 
American editors in advance of the opening. 


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Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


The menu was fine, served by fresh white waitresses, in new 
uniforms and white aprons; the linens were new, likewise the 
silver, and a good orchestra discoursed new music, while the hun- 
gry newspaper folks ate fresh meat, fresh white bread, spread with 
fresh yellow butter, and drank rich fresh milk from the Inn’s 
own fresh dairy. 

Everything was lovely. The program was carried out to 
perfection, after which the merry journalists spent two happy 
hours in wandering around the lovely isle, sniffing the perfume 
of the pines, gathering wild flowers, and inhaling the invigorating 
breezes which blew across the lakes. So loath was the crowd to 
leave this enchanting scene that the Captain had to blow several 
extra whistles, and then the manager of the party was compelled 
personally to round up the people in order to get them back on 
the boat for the return trip. 

The spirits of the passengers ran high; they sang and danced 
on the upper deck; never was there a happier party. Some one 
happened to remark that the day was the anniversary of my birth. 
Forthwith, Billy Smith, of Waukegan, 111., reached for his hat, 
and, remarking that he knew I was a hundred years old, he took 
up a collection of one hundred of those big, round, Canadian 
pennies, with King George’s bust on them. They were presented 
to me, with an appropriate speech, and, my pockets bulging with 
the weight of this cash testimonial, which was the only easy money 
I ever got, I was compelled to mount a steamer chair and make a 
fool of myself by making a speech in acknowledgment. 

At six o’clock in the afternoon we had finished the return 
trip. Several of us who were among the first to disembark had 
returned to the train which was in waiting, and were washing up, 
preparatory to making a drive on the diner, when a messenger 
arrived. He breathlessly informed us that everybody was re- 
quested to return to the wharf ; that some teaspoons were missing 
from the dining room of the Bigwin Inn, at which we had lunched, 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


223 


and that as some one in the crowd was supposed to have the 
spoons, we were expected to repair to the boat and submit to a 
search. 

We resented the intimation and refused to return, but on 
second thought decided to go back, out of curiosity. 

At the landing we found the angriest crowd of men and 
women imaginable. Everybody was talking at once, some de- 
manding that they be searched, others refusing on the ground 
that they would not submit to the humiliating intimation that they 
were even under suspicion. One man wanted to duck in the lake 
whoever was the first to cast such an aspersion on a respectable 
body of American newspaper men and women. 

The turn of events had naturally cast a damper on the feel- 
ings of the visitors. Their mood was in strange contrast to the 
hilarity of a short time before. 

An investigation developed that the hotel people charged no 
one directly with a theft, but had ’phoned the manager of our 
party of the loss of the spoons. The manager announced the fact 
rather abruptly, and suggested if any member of the party had 
thoughtlessly, for fun, carried off the spoons, he would be glad 
if that person would return them, as we were under obligations 
to the hotel for courtesies. He seemed to think that perhaps some 
confirmed souvenir hunter had actually put some of the spoons 
in his or her pocket, as is sometimes done at cafe dining rooms, 
and thought little of; but this insinuation was resented and made 
the crowd madder than ever. 

The outcome of the row was that, at the suggestion of some- 
body, the waitress from whose table the spoons disappeared, was 
sent for, to identify the people who sat at the table which she 
served. It took four hours to bring her to the scene of war, and 
when she arrived, without any hesitation, she identified six of us, 
— and, to my consternation, I was one of the unfortunate half 
dozen. The remarkable part of the identification was that, al- 


224 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


though this waitress had never seen any of us except during the 
meal at the Inn, she was able, six hours afterward, at another 
place, and when some of us had changed our dress, to pick out 
six of us, who were separated, from an indiscriminate crowd of 
over a hundred people. But she had not seen and could not 
undertake to say that any one of us had taken the spoons; she 
could only state that we had sat at the table from which they 
disappeared. 

I did not want to think that the poor girl had put up a job 
on us. It was conceivable that some one may have stolen the 
spoons, but as one of the gentlemen who sat with me at the table 
had unintentionally offended the waitress during the meal, in 
conection with a tip, I believed it possible that the accusation was 
the result of spitework. 

However, the incident spoiled a happy day, and I never 
expect to hear the last of that spoon episode. “Spoons, spoons, 
who got the spoons?” still reverberates in my ears. 

The matter nearly resulted in international complications, as 
detectives and barristers were consulted in regard to it. A local 
barrister, who was consulted as to a damage suit against the hotel 
man, stated that it would be necessary to prove that our characters 
w T ere damaged. As to myself, I could not prove that my character 
was, or could be, any worse, and therefore I dropped the matter; 
especially since it was not my business to prove who got the 
spoons. 

All agreed that the hotel had made a fuss and a muss over 
a trivial matter, — the possible loss of a few plated spoons. 

I have since heard that the guilty party had been discovered; 
that is, I have been told by one who is in a position to know, that 
he “had heard the rattle of the spoons,” but he would not divulge 
the name of the suspected party, and therefore nobody has been 
hung or drawn and quartered for the crime. 

As I write these lines, I am in receipt of a letter from a fellow 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


225 


member of the Order of “Who Got the Spoons,” enclosing a clip- 
ping containing a telegraphic news dispatch, giving an account of 
an operation which was performed on a man in a certain town, 
when five teaspoons were removed from his stomach by the sur- 
geons. 

“Ha! at last! Discovered! Here are five of ’em, but where did 
the sixth go?” comments my correspondent, who lives in Illinois. 

Soon after the spoon episode, The Editor and Publisher, of 
New York, printed a horrible picture of an ugly man, with my 
name under it. Upon seeing it, I immediately wrote one of the 
editor's in the name of a ficticious attorney, demanding satisfaction, 
and as a reply the supposed attorney received a letter, from which 
the following is quoted: 

“Mr. lie Stickem, care F. W. Allsopp, Little Rock, Ark. 

“Whereas, wherein and wherefore your client threatens my present and 
future fortune in yours of the 20th instant, take heed. You are up against 
a bad actor, a man with a criminal record, who will not hesitate to go to the 
direst extreme in protecting his name and character from anyone who at- 
tempts to obtain justice from him. 

“If called into court, the undersigned will not hesitate one moment in 
pleading justification for the alleged ‘burlesque picture and base insinuation,’ 
and might be compelled to ask what became of 100 copper pennies that were 
seen passing secretly into said Fred W. Allsopp’s possession on board a 
certain steamship on the Lake of Bays one day this summer; might be driven 
to make the age of the said Allsopp a matter of public record; might easily 
tell the court of certain reasons why said Allsopp happened to fall down- 
stairs one night in Sackville, N. B., of certain happenings that followed a 
visit to a resort known as Bigwin Inn and of his continued actions aboard 
a certain train in Canada during a certain month of the year 1920. 

“This advice, being given by a fellow spooner of the said Fred W. 
Allsopp, may well be taken under serious consideration before acting 
further on behalf of your client. A word to the wise is sufficient.” 

This extract shows how hard it is for a man to cover up his 
sins or get away from an evil reputation. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

I SUFFER TWO FALLS. 


/^AN the editorial excursion, at a little town with the aristocratic 
^ name of Sackville, in Nova Scotia, I suffered more ill- 
luck. I had two falls. On account of becoming extremely cold 
on a drive from Amherst, I accepted a proffered drink of Scotch 
whiskey, which seemed to be very plentiful thereabout, — and thus 
I fell from grace, as I was a teetotaler. A little later in the 
evening, in leaving a club room, where we had been entertained 
with a reception and a ball by the local newspaper men, I slipped 
on a steep stairway on which wax had been carried from a newly 
waxed ball-room floor. It was no slight slip. I fell flat and hard 
against the edge of one of the stairs, and then rolled to the landing. 
The fall almost knocked the breath out of me, but I recuperated 
and soon thought I was all right again. 

My wife said my fall was the penalty for drinking, but as 
Eb. Klock, who fell on the same stairway, had twice as many 
drinks, which was two, and he only broke his eyeglasses, while I 
fractured a rib, the liquor had nothing to do with it. It was simply 
one of those accidents which will occasionally happen to a man, 
no matter how sober he is. Henceforth the bunch changed my 
name from Allsopp to All-slip. 

In a day or two I began to suffer excruciatingly from what 
I supposed was the result of the fall sustained at Sackville. Upon 
arrival at the little French city of Reviere du Loop, in Quebec 
province, I hunted up a doctor. I found one who was a French- 
man. He seemed to understand what I said, but I couldn’t under- 
stand him very well. He examined me, bound me up until I could 
hardly walk, and left me under the impression that I had a frac- 
tured rib, which would knit in a few days. 

The journey was resumed, and I ensconced myself in a com- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


227 


fortable position to look out of the car window at the landscape 
of Quebec Province. 

After visiting the city of Quebec, we departed for Grand 
Mere, where the Laurentide Paper Mills are located. It was one 
of the objects of my trip to see the paper manufacturers, but I was 
unable to leave my berth when we reached the mill site. Due 
partly to over-exertion at Quebec, where there was so much to see, 
my supposed broken rib hurt me almost unbearably every time 
I moved a muscle of my body. I had sat up in my berth nearly 
all of the night before, because when I got down I could not turn 
over or get up, but I finally eased myself down on the bed. After 
trying several times to rise in the morning I gave up the effort, 
and as soon as the train stopped my wife called a doctor, — the 
mill doctor. 

This doctor proved to be an experienced, talented young 
fellow, who had seen service in a medical corps in France, and 
he knew exactly how to handle fellows like me. 

“Get up,” he says. 

“I cannot, Doctor.” 

“Why not?” 

“The pain nearly kills me when I try to move.” 

“But you must get up — I can’t examine you while you lie 
there.” 

“I simply cannot rise; my fractured rib is sticking through 
my side , and it almost kills me. 

After vainly trying to coax me to rise, he quickly placed his 
hand under my shoulders and yanked me upright, before I knew 
it, or could stop him, or I would have killed him, the brute. 

The pain was so severe that I yelled bloody murder, and the 
ladies in the car said that I cursed the doctor, but, as I never 
swear, their imaginations played them false. 

He thumped me over, and quietly said: 

“You haven’t a broken rib.” 


228 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


“Haven’t a broken rib? Well, what hurts so?” 

“Oh, you’ve got lumbago; been eating and drinking too much, 
and may have taken cold.” 

I looked at him in astonishment, while he removed the for- 
mer doctor’s bandages, plastered me with about fifty yards of 
adhesive tape, gave me an opiate, collected $5 and was gone. 

The occupants of the car had the laugh on me. And they 
even went so far as to suggest that it was a good thing that the 
doctor gave me the opiate, before he extracted $5 from me, — 
whatever they meant to insinuate by that. 

Later, I consulted an osteopath, who was strongly recom- 
mended to me by a lady friend. He gave me some enforced exer- 
cise, by pummelling me, stretching my arms, pulling my leg, 
twisting my neck and rolling me around on his table, until he 
shook all the money out of my pants pocket, when, with a signifi- 
cant grin, he said he knew I would get all right now that he had 
loosened me up. When I told this to the gang, they laughed out- 
rageously at the reference to loosening me up, and, taking it in 
connection with their previous reference to the mill doctor’s giving 
me an opiate before he collected his $5 fee, they embarrassed me 
greatly by leading me to think that they seemed to have put me 
down as a “tight wad.” 

That lumbago was the most darned painful thing that I ever 
experienced; but I felt better immediately after I was assured that 
my rib was not broken — although I still have some doubt about 
that doctor’s diagnosis. 

The following morning after leaving Huntsville, the party 
arrived at Ontario’s metropolis, Toronto, where on Queens street 
I used to toddle around when I was still in swaddling clothes. 
It was there I am told that I one day got lost, to the consternation 
of my poor mother. She finally located me several blocks away 
from home, hiding in an empty dry goods box, near the side of a 
store. She said that when I was discovered I acted like a monarch 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


229 


of all I surveyed and was perfectly unconcerned as to the family’s 
anxiety about my welfare. 

Toronto, which is a modern city of unlimited resources, with 
numerous attractions for the visitor, had prepared an elaborate 
program of entertainment for the newspaper party, including a 
breakfast, an excursion around the harbor, a reception by the 
Royal Canadian Yacht Club, another, by personal invitation of 
the Lieutenant-Governor, at the Parliament building, automobile 
rides, etc., all of which I am told took place as promised, with a 
surprising degree of hospitality and good will in evidence; but 
my wife was ill on account of the incident at Bigwin Inn. There- 
fore, together with a couple of good friends, we repaired to the 
Prince George Hotel for a rest. After a good nap, a good bath 
and a good meal, we took a ride on a “rubber -neck” wagon, and 
got the full worth of our dollar per head tickets, for we saw the 
best of a beautiful city, on a bright, sunshiny day, and were 
thoroughly well entertained by a guide, who, barring Eb. Klock, 
of our party, was the wittiest fellow I ever heard. The speilers 
on the New York Fifth Avenue sightseeing cars are good, but 
this one beat any of them; he w T as a whole show in himself. 

“There’s where Mary Pickford was born,” said he, pointing 
to a house; “her mother was a scrub-woman and her father a 
barber. Mary makes $50,000 a month, which is more than I 
make on this bus; if I’d seen Mary first, she wouldn’t have mar- 
ried Douglas Fairbanks. 

Pointing to another house, he said: “There’s a house in 
which a man lives v/ho buried three wives in one week.” The 
women gasped before he could add, — “he was an undertaker.” 

“This is a crooked street,” he said, as we passed along a 
winding thoroughfare lined with splendid residences; “it is due 
to the fact that so many of our rich bankers and retired brewers 
live on it.” 

By and by we came to a row of rookeries, reminding one of 


230 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


a section of the New York Bowery, and calling attention to the 
most dilapidated hovel on the street, he said, “This, ladies and 
gentlemen, is the mansion in which the driver lives.” 

He offered some card folders for sale, but nobody seemed 
inclined to buy. “Come on, fellows,” he said, “help us out; neither 
the chauffeur nor myself have had a bite to eat since the day 
before yesterday; we have to turn in some of the money we take 
in for fares, — buy a folder.” 

A Ford car blocked our passage at one point. “Get that oil 
can out of the way,” he yelled, good naturedly. 

And thus he kept up a running fire of witticisms during the 
entire drive. I believed him to be an Irishman or a Yankee, but 
he assured us he was a native Canuck. 




CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A FREDERICTON (B. C.) ROMANCE. 

A LL of us have had experiences which stand out as being par- 
ticularly pleasing. Such an one to me was a visit, with the 
National Editorial Association, to the city of Fredericton, the 
beautiful, shady capital of New Brunswick, with its fine parlia- 
ment building, in which is the legislative library. This library 
comprises many rare volumes, including a set of the original 
edition of Audubon’s Book of Birds, which formerly belonged to 
the Duke of Orleans; a copy of the scarce Doomsday Book, and 
several books bearing the autograph of Queen Victoria. There 
are also in the Assembly Room of the same building some noted 
paintings, such as one of Queen Charlotte, painted by Sir Joshua 
Reynolds. There are many other things of interest in that city, 
but my purpose is merely to refer to a chance meeting with an 
unusual lady. 

We arrived at Fredericton early on an afternoon, and were 
immediately invited to enter automobiles which were in waiting 
to take the party for a drive around the city and its environs. It 
was the good fortune of five of us to be assigned to a handsome 
Cadillac closed car, driven by a chauffeur who had the bearing 
of a soldier, although in citizens’ clothes. A dignified, handsome 
lady, of about 45, with white hair, was our host. The chauffeur 

called her “Lady ” in asking her a question, and some one 

who spoke to her through a window of the car also called her 
Lady Somebody. 

It was plain to be seen from her bearing and the character 
of her equippage that we were the guests of some one of more 
than ordinary consequence. My wife at once pricked up her ears, 
and said to the Lady, “I am Mrs. Allsopp, of Arkansas; will you 
not tell us who you are?” 


232 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


“I am Lady ,” said she, as she graciously shook hands 

with all of us and we introduced ourselves. She then gave the 
driver directions as to where to go, saying, “They have arranged 
an itinerary for this drive, but I am going to take you over 
my favorite route,” to which we were glad to assent. 

“Do you reside here?” asked one of the curious ladies. 

“Yes, I was born and raised here,” she said with a twinkle 
in her eye and an accent which would indicate that she was, at 
least, of Irish extraction. 

The hums and ahs of the ladies invited further disclosures, 
but they were apparently somewhat overawed by unexpectedly 
finding themselves in the presence of a titled lady. It was a new 
sensation to some of them. 

Lady , however, was rather loquacious, and not at all 

averse to talk about herself. She was led up to inform us that 

she had married Lord , who took her to England to live; 

that they returned to Canada on a visit before the breaking out 
of the war, and subsequent events had detained them longer than 
expected. 

It was plain to be seen that, while she was no ordinary 
woman, but was quick-witted, full of life, — with a strong person- 
ality, she was in fact uneducated in the higher sense, and, believing 
that this interesting woman had a story to tell, if she could be 
induced to disclose it, I ventured to say: 

“Lady , would you mind telling us something of the 

romance which I am sure is connected with your life?” 

“Not at all,” said she, and as we rolled along a delightful 
driveway on the bank of the picturesque Nashwaak River, with 
the enthusiasm of a young girl, she related the following remark- 
able story: 

“I was a telephone operator at Fredericton (she mentioned 
her maiden name, but I have forgotten it) when my future husband 
arrived at this place from England as a sportsman in quest of 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


233 


game, the plentiutde of which in this neighborhood he had heard 
of. Before I knew who he was, I had a brief conversation with 
him one evening over the phone about a long distance message, 
and he inquired of me, ‘who are you?’ 

“I replied, ‘I am the telephone operator.’ 

“ ‘But what is your name?’ 

“ ‘None of your business,’ I replied. 

“ ‘Well, I am going to find out to whom that cheery voice 
belongs,’ he said. 

“ ‘It won’t do you any good,’ said I. 

“ ‘ I am coming to see you,” he persisted. 

“ ‘No you are not,’ I retorted, and hung up the receiver. 

“I heard that he inquired about me, and my informants told 
me that he was a member of an aristocratic English family. He 
later made it a point to get a friend to introduce him to me, and 
he asked permission to call. I refused for a time to see him, but 
he sent me messages and flowers, and was so persistent, that I 
finally allowed him to call at my mother’s home. 

“After a brief courtship, he proposed marriage, and I became 
his wife. He was then without a title. His brother was Earl of 

. Sometime afterward, my husband’s father, mother and 

brother had all departed this life, and he inherited the title and 
estate of the family in shire, England. 

“It became necessary for us to go to England, where we soon 
landed. It was a great transition for me. Think of my bewilder- 
ment when I beheld the broad acres and the numerous houses 
which comprised the estate, and how dumbfounded I was when I 
learned that I was the mistress of a retinue of fifty-two servants, 
with all the attendant responsibilities. 

“The first morning, I went down to the kitchen and started 
to prepare breakfast, as I had done at home in Fredericton, but 
the butlers and cooks objected, saying, ‘You are the first Lady 
who ever entered a kitchen;’ but I insisted on cooking the 


234 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


breakfast, and the servants thought it so good that they came near 
eating it all up.” 

She related other experiences as interesting, amid laughter, 
and to her evident pleasure. 

The driver of the machine was so well trained that Lady 

had only to pause in her conversation when referring to 

such points of interest as the Scoodewapscookis Club, the Pokick 
Falls, the Penniac Bridge, the old home of Benedict Arnold, the 
Anglican Cathedral, or the University, to cause him to instantly 
halt, as if he had been implicitly told to do so. We were thus 
enabled to obtain views of the attractions of this delightful place 
which would have been otherwise impossible, and a more agree- 
able excursion, on a perfect day, could not well be imagined. 

Lady had little trouble in prevailing on us to accom- 

pany her to her home, where she entertained us with tea and cake, 
in old English style, and pleased me by seating me in an English 
chair, which she said was 400 years old; while the ladies were 
shown curiosities and ancient heirlooms which had descended 
from her husband’s family, including his hunting trophies from 
all over the world. 

My wife insisted on taking the lady to our train, which invi- 
tation she did not hesitate to accept, and where all the ladies of 

Car Four were presented. Lady seemed to enjoy the lark 

so much that I doubt if her triumphal entry into her husband’s 
ancient ancestral halls in England was more inspiring or edifying 
to her. She was something of a curiosity to the editors’ wives, 
but they accorded her a cordial reception. 

At night, Lady was one of the hostesses at the recep- 

tion and ball given to the newspaper people by the Governor- 
General, at the Parliament House. 

For many days afterwards, as we sped along our way, Lady 

was the chief topic of conversation among the ladies on 

the train. But the men who had not been privileged to meet 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


235 


Lady , boasted of having seen a curiosity, too, of a ruder 

kind. In the Baker Hotel at Fredericton there was exhibited a 
stuffed frog, which was said to have weighed forty pounds. I 
don’t know whether we were taken for greenhorns and our in- 
formant intended to impose on our credulity, or not, but a local 
newspaper man told the following story about this frog: 

“Many years ago, the floor of a Paris butcher shop was torn 
up, disclosing an enormous frog, which had become overgrown 
by drinking the blood which had soaked through the floor of the 
butcher shop. A Fredericton man thought he would try the ex- 
periment of fattening a frog in this way, so he captured one which 
was large to begin with, and he fed him blood and oatmeal for 
several months, with the result that he became a monster, but 
finally died, when he was stuffed and placed on exhibition in the 
glass case in which you see him.” 




CHAPTER XXXIV. 

IN CONCLUSION— MUSINGS AND YEARNINGS. 


rpHERE is an end to everything. To the author, the completion 
1 ofa composition of any considerable length, like the termi- 
nation by the traveler of a tedious journey, sometimes brings relief. 
Possibly, some of my readers will sigh with relief at the approach- 
ing close of this story. At the end of his passage, the traveler is 
usually disposed to rest up, or knock around a bit for relaxation; 
so, at the wind-up of the modest undertaking comprised in these 
pages, I should like to banish the subject and let my thoughts 
roam at will. 

Being mindful, however, of another ending, which cannot be 
deferred many years, my mind’s-eye, with retrospective sweep, 
reviews the events of my life, as I might run over the contents of 
this little book. 

It may be that some who take up this volume, do so with 
keen interest for the whole field of newspaper work, and with 
some curiosity to note how a life, closely engaged in newspaper- 
making, finds itself, at the end of a fairly long devotion to news- 
paper interests. I am in the mood to take stock of myself, as it 
were, and I feel sure that in all honest reflection there is a grain 
of help for others. Therefore, I indite sincerely and frankly my 
assets and liabilities. 

The superficial summing up thus made of the net results of 
my struggles, and consequent successes and failures, is not entirely 
reassuring. 

I find the gains of the years, besides a devoted wife, tolerably 
creditable children, and a fair standing among my fellows, include 
the making of some material headway in the world, and the 
acquirement of a few gratifying accomplishments, as the result 
of application and hard work, while engaged in an intelligent, up- 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


237 


lifting and congenial occupation. My mind, my outlook has 
surely been helped in every way. 

The losses embrace opportunities gone forever, wasted ener- 
gies, impaired vitality through the wear and tear of time; pleas- 
ures that might have been enjoyed through a closer compliance 
with secular and religious duties, and the satisfaction that might 
have been derived through the performance of much that I have 
desired to do for my fellow-man and the world, but which re- 
mains undone. 

A detailed enumeration of my inconspicuous acts, might look 
reasonably well, from the ordinary worldly standpoint; but I fear 
that the letter of credit which I shall carry into the next world 
will be of such a negative character as to avail me little. 

As may be gleaned from my narrative, I have been absorbed 
in my business, practically to the exclusion of everything else. I 
have grown old in the service of the Arkansas Gazette, — the “Old 
Lady.” I still love her with the refined regard which one has for 
an ideal with which he has grown up, that has helped him, and 
which he has helped; that has shared all his joys and sorrows, 
never disappointed his expectations, never deserted him in his 
hours of weakness, or turned a deaf ear to his appeals, 

I love my work, and am conscious of what is doubtless a’ 
laudable and natural ambition to go ahead, in a proper way, with 
increased efforts, to add to my accomplishments as long as I live, 
— each year to show growth, — to get somewhere. 

But there are times when the man who is best satisfied with 
the state of his affairs is apt to feel that he would like to forsake 
the turmoil of the world; when he courts solitude, to meditate on 
his sins. There are so many things in this wonderful world to see, 
so many things which we could do, or imagine we could do, if 
we were absolutely free agents, removed from the cares and 
duties connected with a going business, which, in this age of 


238 Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 

J* . ! - ' 

extreme competition, must be looked after every minute with the 
watchfulness of a fond parent for a helpless child. 

For nearly two score years, I have sat at a desk in the 
same old office, at the same old game. I don’t know whether 
it is due to alluring memories of the green fields, leafy shades and 
salubrious air of recent vacations, after which it was hard to get 
back in work harness; but I feel that I am to some extent now 
influenced by a subconscious tendency to shrink from business 
complications and their entangling alliances; to wish that I could 
oftener be spared the petty annoyances connected with dealing 
with the dear public, — the eternal consideration of dishonored 
checks and notes, the lending and borrowing of money, the hear- 
ing of wage and other complaints, the granting and declining of 
solicited favors, the hearing of inumerable tales of woe, and 
other vexations. 

When I was young, after my playful days were over, I natur- 
ally gravitated toward the city, and to the newspaper office. Now 
I find myself returning to the yearnings of my early boyhood for 
the liberties and the adventures of the great out-of-doors. The 
work of the printing office, which in my later youth I considered 
play, has grown somewhat stale, through long familiarity. 

In future years, on some sweet day. 

When life’s hard work is done, 

I hope to taste more of earth’s joys — 

By earnest effort won. 

I long to change the click of type, 

The rumbling of the press. 

For other sounds and other scenes, 

With less of business stress. 

I want to be a child again, 

To tramp through stubble fields; 

To gather in my old straw hat 
The fruit the orchard yields. 


Little Adventures in Newspaperdom 


239 


I pine to hunt the tangled wilds 
In flower-culling quest. 

Just as I did in boyhood days, — 

And with as keen a zest. 

I crave to climb for nests and nuts 

While roaming through the woods; 

To fish, and hunt, and loaf and think 
In quiet neighborhoods. 

I wish to swim the old mill pond; 

In trickling brooks to wade; 

And to indulge my fickle will 
In sunshine and in shade. 

I sigh to watch the waving trees, 

To listen to the birds. 

And thus commune with Nature more, 
When starved on idle words. 

I yearn to lie on earth’s green sward, 
And seek the open skies, 

To see if God will not unveil 
Some mysteries from my eyes. 

Then when I cannot venture out 
The pulsing world to see, 

I want to have some good old books 
To keep me company. 

And when I have outlived these joys, 
God grant me that content 

Which comes with ripe experience, — 
From days that were well spent. 

When hoary age creeps up, and thrusts 
Me in the silent room, 

May happy glimpses of the past 
Free my last hours of gloom. 


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